


your princess in another castle

by Delmareve



Category: South Park
Genre: Action/Adventure, An AU in which everyone can kick some ass., F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 05:23:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 99,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1928226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delmareve/pseuds/Delmareve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mysterion saves Butters Stotch from certain death one cold, dark night. He is immediately captivated by the blond-haired boy, but Butters wants nothing to do with love or caped crusaders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Intro.**

 

* * *

It was dark and hot.

 

The smell of cheap perfume lingered in the air, faintly tinged with the coppery smell of blood. There were cigarette burns in the fabric of the old couch in the corner, the coffee table was stained and scratched, and the carpet was so thin the bare floorboards could be seen peeking through in spots. The motel room was covered with a hideous gray wallpaper that looked as if it might have been white once upon a time, and the door was so thin and flimsy Mysterion could hear someone's TV blaring three doors down. It was hardly a romantic scene, but this was hardly a romantic encounter. Right now, all Mysterion cared about was the sturdiness of the bed.

Wendy moaned against him.

She was completely nude, armored only in a fine sheen of sweat. Mysterion was naked except for his mask and cape. Besides the obvious need to maintain his anonymity, they liked it when he kept the mask on, and Mysterion was only too happy to oblige. He pulled Wendy flush against him, smiling wickedly, and lowered his head to take her left nipple in his mouth. He sucked gently while she trembled against him, her hands bunching in the smooth dark fabric of his cape. Mysterion dragged his tongue across the soft mounds of her breasts, kissing and sucking until she was hissing his name in a thin, strangled voice. Wendy hooked a leg around his waist, disentangling her hands from his cape to wrap her arms tightly around his neck. She kissed him hard, her lips moist and slightly swollen, whimpering into his mouth as Mysterion cupped her pert, firm ass and nudged her backward. He tumbled them both onto the bed, his cape spreading over them like a blanket.

"Mysterion…" Wendy whispered, writhing under him as his lips settled hungrily on her throat. Mysterion felt her small hands inching toward the ties that kept his mask in place, but he caught her wrists before she could unlace them and pressed them firmly into the mattress.

"What did I say about the mask, babe?" Mysterion asked, his voice low, rough, "No taking it off. Don't ask, don't even fucking _reach_ for it. If I have to tell you again, we're done." He used a free hand to trail a fingertip across her collarbone, down one heaving breast and over the taut planes of her toned stomach. When he reached her hipbone he dipped inward, slipping a finger into the hot core of her. She was dripping with arousal. Mysterion eased a second finger inside while Wendy buckled helplessly against him, her wrists still pinned.

"Will you be a good girl?" Mysterion murmured as he slipped his fingers in and out, slowly working deeper. "Hmm?"

"Oh...God...!" Wendy cried, arching desperately into his touch, which was never quite deep enough, hard enough. "Please…!"

"Answer my question." Mysterion withdrew himself from her completely, fingers slick with her, watching with a small smile of satisfaction as her pretty face contorted with desire and frustration. "I said, _will you be a good girl_?"

"Yes!" Wendy sobbed, her dark eyes shooting fire, "Yes, now fuck me, you bastard!"

Mysterion laughed richly, using a knee to urge her legs open. Wendy was squirming unabashedly, impatient with need, but Mysterion started off slow, pressing kisses to her stomach. His fingers continued where they'd left off, and this time, he pushed as deep inside her as they could go. He worked urgently, hooking his fingers up to touch an incredibly sensitive part of her anatomy. Wendy gasped, then screamed as he lowered his mouth to nibble on her throbbing clit, dipping in, pulling out, using both hands now, faster and faster. Wendy was pulsing around him, her nails digging into his scalp, struggling to survive the pleasurable onslaught. Mysterion withdrew once more, his face and fingers smeared with her essence.

"You taste like apples, babe." He murmured, and dove in once more, teeth gently sinking into her clit. He shoved three fingers in, quick and hard, and Wendy came with a shudder, tugging on his hair so roughly she ripped a few strands out.

Wendy was still seeing stars when Mysterion flipped her over, so that she was resting on her stomach, her face buried in the musty coverlet. He placed his hands on her hips, urging her ass into the air, and thrust inside with a groan that made something in her belly quiver.

The rest was motion, _frantic_ motion, as Mysterion fucked her hard enough to make the bedsprings in the funky mattress squeak. Wendy was shouting, cursing, her voice muffled, wildly working her hips back on his dick. She came again, her voice raw with release, and then he did, fisting a hand in her thick black hair as he spilled himself inside her.

It was times like these when Mysterion was glad he wasn't exactly human. He didn't have to worry about unplanned pregnancies.

Later, he dressed himself in the cool, inky darkness as Wendy slept. When he had completely donned his superhero costume, he turned back to the bed and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Take care of yourself, babe." Mysterion murmured.

He left his calling card on the night table and slipped out the window, into the night.

* * *

As much as Mysterion enjoyed hot, no-strings-attached sex with his admiring fans, there were lots of other things he liked about being a superhero. Despite The South Park Gazette's concerted efforts to paint him as a dangerous (and possibly even insane) vigilante who needed to be put behind bars, Mysterion did this because he genuinely enjoyed helping people, and wanted to protect the town he called home.

Many folks labored under the assumption that being a superhero was a glamorous, exciting occupation, but that couldn't have been further from the truth. Traipsing around as a caped crusader was hard, risky, _unpleasant_ fucking work, and unlike the local police force Mysterion didn't have the luxury of being able to call for backup. His nights were filled with the worst of what society had to offer. Criminals and lost, broken souls who had long since given up on any hope of rescue a long time ago filed his nights in equal measure. He didn't get paid to patrol the streets and hand out tickets, he didn't operate under an umbrella of bureaucracy and red tape. Mysterion went where he willed, and helped those who had fallen so far through the cracks that even the police weren't an option.

He wasn't arrogant enough to think he was doing a better job than the men and women of the South Park PD — but they had _their_ place and he had _his_. He liked to think he was making a difference, however small. Every person he saved made the pain, the long, sleepless nights, and every unspeakable, fucked-up situation he'd ever witnessed worth it. It was a thankless job, mostly, but Mysterion didn't need to be patted on the back. He did this for himself. He did this for his sister. He did this for South Park, and for every person who'd ever felt hopeless, powerless and alone. Mysterion knew what it was like to feel that way, and he never wanted anyone to have that same experience. He would play guardian angel for half the town, if that was what it took.

So long as there was violence and darkness, he would be there. He was _Mysterion_ , protector of the weak, harbinger of good, and mortal enemy to all those who'd seek to harm others.

...And right now, he was freezing his fucking ass off.

Mysterion sighed, checking his police scanner once again, but all he got was silence, broken by the occasional buzz barely worth listening to. For once, the town was peaceful, held in the grip of an oncoming blizzard. Thick piles of snow had built up along the crenelations of the old City Hall building where Mysterion had perched himself, and more snow was drifting lazily from a sky black and moonless. Mysterion futilely blew into his cupped hands, which were numb in spite of the thick gloves he wore. It was just past three o'clock in the morning, he judged. Mysterion stood up, stretching his aching legs. Being a superhero was ninety percent waiting for something to go down and ten percent action, he had discovered. If he had a dollar for every time he'd nearly frozen to death, or gotten soaked to the bone, he could quit his day job.

Habit — or perhaps it was just stubbornness — made Mysterion check the scanner again. When he was greeted with more silence, he yawned, tucked the device away, and decided to call it a night. Tweek Tweak (his sort-of sidekick and trusted adviser) couldn't sleep until Mysterion had made it back to the base safely. It would be good to hit the sack before dawn for once, and the wind was beginning to pick up speed, each gust carrying a definite bite to it, stealing every last bit of warmth. This storm's going to be a bad one.

Mysterion leapt off the roof of the City Hall building with all the grace and fearlessness of a feline. He navigated the darkened rooftops of South Park's businesses and homes with parkour-like moves, flawlessly executing flips and jumps that could easily have broken every bone in his body with one wrong wrong slip. Hell, he _had_ broken every bone in his body before, back when he'd first started doing this. The learning curve had been one steep upward slope, fraught with danger and setbacks. Mysterion had made plenty of mistakes.

He always got a chance to try again, though.

Mysterion cleared the span of distance between two buildings, then paused to catch his breath. The sound of voices in the alley below made him tense and turn back, because he recognized that sound. It was the same tone his father had once used, when he was in his drunken rages. Mysterion crouched and cautiously peered down into the alley, narrowing his eyes at the darkened figures he saw there. Two men had pinned one small, blond-haired boy up against a filthy dumpster, while he shivered in obvious fear and distress. From this distance, Mysterion couldn't make out what they were saying, but when one of the men whipped out a pocket knife and held it against the small blond boy's throat, he flew into action.

Mysterion leapt down with a loud clatter of noise, hoping it would distract them. It did.

The men whirled around, startled. Freed of his tormentors, the blond-haired boy simply slumped to the ground, too weak to stand. Mysterion rushed the thugs before they could recover from their surprise, taking one out with a flurry of blows. One well-placed punch to the face squashed the man's nose like an overripe tomato, then a blow to the sternum, followed by a solid roundhouse had the man on his knees. Another kick to the head and the asshole was out like a light, bleeding into the dirty snow.

Mysterion spun on the next guy, the man with the pocket knife, but this dude was much faster than his friend. He lunged forward, shouting obscenities, and buried the blade in Mysterion's shoulder. Mysterion grunted with pain, staggering under the man's weight, and wrestled with the guy a little before throwing him off.

 _Great, I just fucking dry-cleaned this costume,_ Mysterion thought, yanking the knife out of his shoulder. It came free with a spurt of blood, slicing muscles along the way, and hurt like a _bitch_ , but Mysterion was used to that. The man tried to lunge at him again, fists raised, but this time Mysterion was ready for him. He pivoted at the last moment, and used the idiot's own knife to open a weeping gash in his forearm. The dude screamed, staggering, clutching his bleeding limb, and Mysterion quickly buried a foot in his gut, served up with a crushing blow to the temple. Like his friend, the asshole crumbled like a sack of potatoes.

"Now you know how it feels." Mysterion growled, tossing the knife down in disgust.

Breathing hard, Mysterion turned to face the blond-haired boy. He was huddled by the dumpster, shivering uncontrollably, his eyes huge in his wan, pale face. When the boy saw Mysterion looking he winced, drawing back like a wounded animal, before struggling to his feet.

"Suh-stay _away_ f-from muh-me!" The boy stammered, trembling, "Puh-please, jus'...jus'...get the fuck away!"

"I'm not going to hurt you," Mysterion replied wearily, clutching his bleeding shoulder, "you're safe now, alright? Please, just calm down."

The blond-haired boy shook his head vehemently, his hair flying. He finally managed to struggle to his feet as Mysterion watched in alarm, and began running away as fast as he could, his sneakers squishing in the snow.

"Wait!" Mysterion shouted at the boy's fleeing back. _Damn it!_

He chased after the blond boy, down one alley and into another as he fled, careening wildly into the darkness.

"Leave me alone! Jus' leave me the fuck _alone_!" The boy shouted over his shoulder, but in spite of his desperation to get away, it was obvious he wasn't doing too well. He was limping, nearly falling flat on his face more than once. Mysterion caught him easily, snagging the back of his shirt with his good arm.

"I said calm down! I'm not here to hurt you!" Mysterion snarled, feeling more than a little annoyed by the chase. He was bleeding like a stuck pig, and the boy was refusing to listen to him. Instead of calming down, the boy began struggling madly, sobbing, kicking and punching Mysterion as hard as he could with his weakened limbs.

"Fuck you! Fuck you! I hate you!" The boy whimpered, his high voice breaking with terror, "Please...puh-please...don't take me back there! I jus'...I...I'm beggin' you, please!"

"Goddamn it, for the last fucking time, I'm not here to hurt you! And I'm not taking you anywhere you don't want to go!" Mysterion shouted, at his wits' end. So much for calling it a night. "What are you even talking about?"

The boy turned to look at him. Mysterion's breath caught in his throat. The blond-haired boy had traces of a black eye, and there were bruises on his neck in the shape of hand prints. His clothes were dirty and he was far too thin...but his eyes...his eyes were beautiful, a stunning shade of aquamarine shiny with unshed tears. Mysterion had never seen eyes like that, gentle and innocent, yet filled with pain, loss, confusion. His heart clenched in his chest as the boy trembled, the tears in his eyes finally rolling down his cheeks.

" _Please_ don't take me back." The boy whispered, before he slumped in Mysterion's arms and fainted.

Mysterion held the unconscious boy in his arms for a moment, before tenderly scooping him up, forgetting the pain in his wounded shoulder. The boy was so small it was like picking up a wad of damp towels. He was clearly malnourished. Mysterion felt fury blossom in his chest, intense and all-encompassing.

Tweek hated having people he didn't know in the secret base...but his trusty sidekick would just have to make an exception this time.


	2. Chapter 2

  **1.**

" _Ngh_! If I have to watch you take another _basket case_ under your wing while we have actual work to do, I am...seriously...going to lose it! It's _too much fucking pressure_ , man!"

**~ Tweek Tweak.**

* * *

Mysterion's secret base consisted of the top floors of an abandoned theater in downtown South Park.

It was technically squatting, but his day job was a minimum wage piece of shit and ninety percent of his income went toward paying for Karen's private school. Mysterion didn't mind. The run-down theater wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was home-sweet-home all the same, particularly after all the "improvements" Tweek had made over the years.

Mysterion eased his way into the theater, still cradling the unconscious blond boy in his arms. Even after all the years of abandonment and neglect, the place still smelled a little like popcorn. Mysterion didn't even _like_ popcorn, but he had long come to associate the smell of it with being somewhere safe. The elevator to the top floors could only be accessed by punching in a code, which Tweek changed monthly because he was a paranoid little shit. There had been times when he'd forgotten the codes and had no choice but to call Tweek to come down and get him (humiliating, to say the least). On one memorable occasion, Tweek had been _convinced_ he was an impostor, and Mysterion had cursed him out for nearly an hour before his partner finally relented.

This time, the code came to him easily, probably because it happened to be Tweek's birthday ( _091090)_ and the bastard was trying to tell him something. _Right_. As if he could afford to get Tweek anything other than a pound of coffee, six-pack of beer and a box of extra, _extra_ small condoms just to see the look on his face. Mysterion punched in the code, leaving a little smear of blood on the buttons, and listened impatiently as the elevator groaned to life and then opened its doors with a slow rumble.

He stepped inside and waited for the damn thing to take him up the third floor, as the boy in his arms moaned in his sleep. There was a tiny camera in one corner of the elevator, as well an intercom crackling with static. Mysterion knew that somewhere inside the base, Tweek was watching him from that camera and having a mini-meltdown. When Mysterion held up a middle finger the intercom buzzed, the elevator suddenly filling with the sound of Tweek's voice.

"Oh. Oh you did _not_. Please tell me I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing, man."

Mysterion grinned as the elevator screeched to a halt and the doors slid open with a rusted hiss of sound. The top floor of the abandoned theater had been completely gutted. It resembled a huge studio apartment now, albeit without a functioning kitchen. On one side was Tweek's stuff, and on the other side was his.

Tweek's side was a _mess_. There were computers and electronic equipment everywhere, most of which didn't even _work._ Tweek hardly ever threw anything away, so his portion of their shared space looked as if this was where all the crap they sold when Circuit City went out of business came to die. He had radios and monitors, TVs and VCR players (why Tweek was still hanging on to _that_ thing Mysterion had no idea, nobody even made video tapes anymore), walkie-talkies and Bluetooth headsets, laptops and desktops and ancient boxy things that looked like they belonged in a museum. Some of that stuff had been taken apart for their components, but a lot of it just sat in the corner, gathering a fine layer of dust.

His partner's bed was a tiny army cot with a thin quilt and a several flattened pillows thrown over it. Mysterion knew from experience that Tweek kept a combat knife hidden under the mattress. Piled around his bed were stacks of old newspapers, bizarre conspiracy-theory themed magazines and new-agey self help books. Coffee mugs lay _everywhere_ , some still filled with the strong black brew Tweek drank at least twenty times a day. His partner didn't own very many clothes, but what he did have was stored in a solid chest pushed up against one wall. Tweek had installed cameras all over the theater and built himself a nice little security station, where he could watch everything going on from the comfort of his bathrobe and fuzzy slippers.

His desk was the only thing Tweek bothered to keep neat and organized. It consisted of his personal computer, a picture of his parents in a nice silver frame, and two pristine 9mm handguns.

Tweek was sitting at his desk in his ratty pink bathrobe, glaring at him. Mysterion blew him a kiss, which only made Tweek glare harder.

"Look, man, I thought this was supposed to be a partnership," Tweek said, sounding thoroughly unhappy. "We _agreed_ , man! No strangers in the secret base!"

Mysterion sighed, carrying the unconscious boy to his side of the room. It was cleaner, more spacious, with a bigger bed and an armoire full of his day clothes and spare costumes. He had a bookcase, too. It was mostly filled with the filthiest selection of porn you ever did see, but mixed in with X-rated DVDs and scintillating skin-mags were strange books with titles like _The Cult of Cthulhu_ and _Secret Societies_. Mysterion eased the blond-haired boy down onto his mattress, trying to arrange his gangly limbs as comfortably as he could. The kid was so small and undernourished the bed seemed to _swallow_ him, even though he must have been eighteen or nineteen at least. Mysterion gently smoothed back the boy's hair, which had been cut in a strange style that was longer on top and closely shaved everywhere else. The marks of abuse on the boy's skin infuriated Mysterion beyond reason, but he found himself hoping the kid would wake up soon so he could get another glimpse at those _gorgeous_ blue-green eyes of his.

 _Whoa, what I am doing?_ Mysterion snatched his hand away and turned to face Tweek, smiling apologetically.

"Tweek, you _know_ we're partners. For life, dude," he said, limping his way over to Tweek's desk.

"Hmph. It certainly doesn't _feel_ like it," Tweek complained, eying Mysterion critically, " _I'm_ here doing all the research while _you_ get to traipse around town fighting bad guys and screwing around! I ask you to do one thing, man, _one thing_ , and that's not bring people to the base! It's a _huge_ breach of security! _Gah_!"

"Jesus, Tweek, _look_ at me!" Mysterion cried, gesturing angrily at his stabbed shoulder, which had thankfully gone a little numb at this point. "You get to sit here in your fucking _pajamas_ watching _Ancient Aliens_ while I do all the legwork. It's not a fucking _picnic_ out there, okay? If I'm not dealing with some trigger happy cop on my ass, then it's some coked-up goon with nothing to lose! Being a superhero doesn't exactly come with health benefits."

Mysterion plopped down in a spare chair, too tired to bother patching himself up. "Fuck, that _hurts_. 'Sides, don't give me that crap about doing all the boring stuff. You _like_ doing research."

"True enough," Tweek admitted with a grin, strolling over to inspect Mysterion's shoulder, "I'd much rather be in here than out there. Dealing with those maniacs is _way_ too much pressure, man."

"See? You like research, and I like beating up bad guys." Mysterion replied, wincing when Tweek began poking gingerly at his wound. "Screwing around is just my reward for all the bullshit I don't get paid for."

"Nice try, man. We both know you'd still do this even if you weren't getting laid by sexy journalists," Tweek said, waggling his brows, " _whatever_ , Kenny. Still doesn't excuse you for breaking the rules. What's up with the kid, anyway?"

Mysterion sighed as Tweek began tending to his stab wound, a little too jerkily to be called tender. Tweek was the only nurse he had available to him, though. He reached up with his free hand and pulled off his mask, and suddenly he wasn't _Mysterion_ anymore, South Park's very own caped crusader. His gravelly voice became softer and higher, more playful.

"I don't know." Kenneth 'Kenny' McCormick admitted, trying to hold still while Tweek stitched him up. "He's a runaway, I think. I saved him from some assholes holding a knife to him in an alley."

"And... _what_? You were so busy trying to look cool you forgot that knives are generally used for stabbing things?"

"Shut the fuck up, Tweek."

"I'm just saying, man!" Tweek said, laughing as he tied off the last stitch, "you aren't usually this sloppy."

"Jesus Christ, there were _two_ of them. I was _cold_. So he nicked me a little, _you_ fucking try this shit wearing nothing but tights and a cape." Kenny replied, grinning in spite of his cranky tone.

They were the perfect partnership. Kenny had met Tweek four years ago, in a chatroom of all places. At some point, Kenny had discovered he could use the internet for more than just looking up dirty videos and typed _Mysterion_ into a Google search. The amount of speculation surrounding his alter-ego was staggering. There were _fansites_ dedicated to him, and pages upon pages of forum threads praising or condemning his vigilantism in the town of South Park. Kenny had been amused — and a little alarmed — to see all the cosplays, the copycats, the people claiming to _be_ Mysterion, and the fanfictions (some of which were rather naughty, but Kenny _really_ liked those). The police department had even released a two-page statement outlining their no-tolerance stance on what they called _"masked hooliganism"_.

In the middle of all this, one thread in particular had caught his eye. Maybe because it simply read: _Help._

_I don't know if Mysterion is real or a hoax. But if you're out there and you're reading this...I could really use your help._

Four years ago, Tweek Tweak had been desperate and on the run.

"Excuses, excuses..." Tweek says now, interrupting Kenny's thoughts. He stands back to look over his work, frowning. His stitches were pretty crooked, but Kenny wasn't bleeding anymore, so...good job? Yeah, good job. Tweek shrugged and began applying a bandage. "A runaway, huh?"

"Yeah. Just before he passed out he kept begging me not to take him back."

"Back? Back _where_?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Kenny says, as Tweek finally finishes. The bandages, suture kit, and peroxide get popped back into the first aid kit, and Tweek wipes his hands on his robe before he returns to his coffee. It has to be pretty _cold_ by now, but Kenny knows Tweek could care less about that. His partner studied him over the rim of his mug as he sipped, and Kenny sighed, because he knew exactly what Tweek was going to say.

"You probably already know this..." Tweek began, but Kenny waved him off before he could finish.

"He's _not_ staying here. As soon as he wakes up, I'm dropping him off at the nearest crisis shelter." Kenny replied, his tone firm. Having to say it makes him _angry_ , but he can't really blame Tweek for reminding him, either.

"Good," Tweek said softly. "You're a _superhero_ , Myst. Not a social worker."

"I fucking _know_ that, Tweek!" Kenny snapped, ripping the hood of his cloak furiously down over his long blond locks. Tweek arched a brow at him.

"Do you?" Tweeks asked, shaking his head. "Look, man...you can help people out of jams, but you can't keep _adopting_ them like stray cats. You started this because you said you wanted to make a difference, and yet you spend half your evenings playing big brother. Not everyone can be _saved_ , Myst. And you can't keep sticking your neck out for people who don't even want to rescue themselves."

"Says the guy who's never saved anyone in his _life_ ," Kenny spit back. It was a low blow and he knew it, but he was tired and frustrated, and Tweek's words were hitting far too close to home. Tweek narrowed his big emerald eyes and set his mug aside, straightening up. Immediately Kenny knew he should apologize, but the words stuck in his throat.

"What do you think I _do_ here all day, man?" Tweek demanded, his voice firm, sharp as a razor blade. "Jerk off? 'Cause _besides_ that, I'm the only guy dumb enough to watch your back, you arrogant fuck-tard! You wouldn't save _half_ as many people as you do if it weren't for me! I do all the research, I fix everything around here, and I patch your stupid ass up when you come home full of stab wounds and reeking like a brothel! I save you _constantly_ , s-so...ARG!"

Tweek threw his hands up, and Kenny found himself trying not to slink away. It took a lot to make Tweek Tweak angry, but Kenny had always _intensely_ regretted it every time. Tweek got a dangerous gleam in his eyes when he's upset, and the ticks he could (mostly) control when he was calm came back full-force.

" _Gah_! You're so fucking _frustrating_! You wanna do this on your own, man, _do you_?!" Tweek shouted, pulling at his wild, straw-like platinum blond hair. " _NGH_! Those fucking _orphans_ you visit every Saturday, that drug-dealing _bitch_ who won't leave her abusive boyfriend, that crazy _slut_ who keeps shoplifting at the mall just so you can visit her...the list goes on and on, man! GAH! And while you run around playing _personal Jesus_ to these freaks, you get less done and miss out on someone who actually _needs_ your help! You can't keep getting attached to these people, alright?! Where are your goddamn priorities, man, _WHERE_?!"

Tweek actually began pacing the room, twitching and muttering frantically to himself. " _Ngh_! If I have to watch you take another _basket case_ under your wing while we have actual work to do, I am...seriously...going to lose it! It's _too much fucking pressure_ , man!"

Kenny stared at his partner for a moment or two, before he doubled over and began laughing so hard tears sprang to his eyes. Laughter was a bit of a gamble when Tweek was this worked up, but the irony of it all was just too much for Kenny to handle. Tweek was glowering at him, looking as if he wanted to put a _bullet_ right between his eyes. Kenny just shook his head and smiled ruefully.

"Says the _basket case_ I took under my wing four years ago." Kenny replied, his voice gentle, soothing.

"Hmph. I'm the _exception_. I pull my weight!" Tweek grumbled, crossing his skinny arms. "Look, man, if you're going to make jokes —"

"I hear you, Tweek. You're right. I'm sorry," Kenny said, sighing again. "Look, I...I'm not making any promises, but I hear you, okay? I'll try. I have a weakness when it comes to stuff like this. I can't _help_ wanting to save everyone." Kenny pulls his mask back over his face so that he's _Mysterion_ again, smiling sadly.

Tweek bit his lip. "But you can't, man. You really, _really_ can't."

"I know, dude." Mysterion mumbled. His voice was gravelly once more. Mysterion glancing toward his bed, where the kid he'd rescued finally seemed to be stirring. Tweek gave him a sorrowful look, but they left the rest unspoken.

"If you want, I can drive him to the crisis shelter," Tweek said, patting his friend on the back, "you should really get some rest, man."

"No," Mysterion growled, standing up with his cape swirling around him. "I'll do it."

Tweek sighed and follows Mysterion as he hurried to the kid's side. The boy moaned and thrashed a little, as if he were fighting someone in his sleep. When the boy finally opened his eyes, Tweek found himself gazing down into an _unfairly_ pretty set of blue-green depths. Tweek liked to think he knew his friend well enough to know all his hang-ups, so he wasn't the least bit surprised Kenny — or Mysterion, or whatever he was calling himself — had taken this one home. _Damn it, Ken_.

"Wuh-ah...where…" The boy blinked, his gaze dazed and feverish. "...Craig…?"

Tweek and Mysterion exchanged a glance. Mysterion reached down to lay a gloved palm on the boy's shoulder as he struggled up, rubbing his face with his small bruised hands.

"Relax. You're safe." Mysterion murmured, his voice low and gruff. "What's your name, kid?"

"Name?" The kid repeated slowly, as if the concept was foreign to him. He blinked again and turned his head, his eyes slowly filling with recognition. "Yuh- _you_...you're that fella from the alley…"

"I'm Mysterion," the superhero said, with a nod and a small smile. Tweek couldn't help rolling his eyes. "I rescued you. You don't have to be afraid."

"If it's okay with you, we're going to take you to the nearest shelter," Tweek interrupted, ignoring Mysterion's disappointed frown, "or, y'know, anywhere you'd like to go. My name's Tweek. Mysterion and I are partners." Tweek's skinny chest puffed out a little with pride. "So, uh, c'mon. What's your name, kid?"

The kid stared at them incredulously for a second or two, and then he chuckled darkly, shaking his head. Tweek had never seen someone look so hopeless, and yet there was an incredible amount of stubbornness in the kid's eyes all the same.

"Butters. You can call me _Butters_. I ain't tellin' you weirdos my real name," Butters said, bitterness lacing his tone like poisoned ivy. "You really think you _rescued_ me? You really think I was scared of those assholes back there? They weren't really gonna hurt me, 'cause if they did they woulda _died_. I ain't afraid, 'cause nothin' scares me anymore. I jus'..." Butters shivered, and then he pouted, his chin jutting with determination. "I ain't goin' back there. I'm _not_."

"Where?" Mysterion demanded, earning a wary glance from Butters. "Who are you running from? Is it your parents?"

Butters laughed, snorting a little, as if that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

"How long have I been out?" Butters asked, ignoring Mysterion's question entirely.

"Butters —"

" _How long have I been out_?" Butters snarled, his eyes narrowing. "Aw, Jesus _hamburgers_. He could be comin' for me…"

"Ack! _Who_?" Tweek cried, just as a loud buzzing sound filled the room. The spastic blond nearly jumped right out of his skin. "Oh _God_! Someone tripped the alarm!"

"Tweek, it's probably just a pigeon," Mysterion sighed, as it so often was whenever the alarm went off. Tweek flew over to the security monitors all the same, as Butters scooted off the bed, looking pale and worried.

"OH _GOD_!"

 _Shit._ Mysterion joined his partner at the security monitors, his cape fluttering dramatically behind him. He couldn't quite believe what he was seeing at first, and stared at the grainy footage with his eyes wide and his mouth slightly ajar.

"Well, shit."

" _Jesus_ , man! What is this?!" Tweek cried, watching as the theater slowly filled with dozens of guys wielding guns. Even with the poor picture quality of the cameras, _anyone_ could see these people meant business. One of the men stood out from the rest. He was very tall, dressed in a suit, with a cigarette dangling from his lips and straight black hair that just brushed the nape of his neck. As Mysterion watched, the man turned and seemed to look straight into the camera, with a grim, _expressionless_ sort of expression. The man gestured, and the lackeys following him began searching the theater like obedient little puppies, guns held high.

"It's Craig Tucker," Butters whispered beside him, his gaze fixed on the security footage. He was so quiet Mysterion hadn't even realized he was standing there. "He was followin' me this whole time...I _knew_ it. I'm so sorry, you fellas. I'm real sorry."

"Who the fuck is Craig Tucker?" Mysterion whirled on Butters and grabbed his arm when he didn't answer, hanging his head. "Butters, what the _fuck_ is going on? Who _are_ these people?"

Butters winced, trembling. "I…"

"Myst, we really don't have time for this!" Tweek shouted, ripping off his bathrobe and scrambling into his shoes. The alarm had grown louder, a persistent _wha!-wha!-wha!-wha!_ sound. Tweek grabbed a duffel bag and shoved his laptop, some clothes, and the framed picture of his parents inside. He picked up his handguns and tucked one into the waistband of his pajama bottoms, while he cocked and loaded the other. The look Tweek gave him was accusatory. "This is why we don't bring strangers to the base, man! THIS IS WHY!"

Mysterion grit his teeth so hard he felt them creak. He ran over to his side of the room and snatched up a duffel bag for himself, filling it with his spare costumes, his work clothes, his favorite porn (he might need to relieve some stress later) and his phone. Mysterion longingly considered taking his XBox 360, but it was probably better to just leave it.

"How far have they gotten inside?" Mysterion growled, checking his own weapons. Firearms really weren't his style. He was a fast, stealthy, _cunning_ fighter who preferred to go hand-to-hand, but he had picked up quite a few deadly tricks along the way. He even carried a 9mm, at Tweek's insistence, though he was nowhere near as good a shot as his partner was.

"Far enough!" Tweek snapped, running for the emergency exit at the very back of the gutted theater. The alarm was practically screaming now, _WHA!-WHA!-WHA!-WHA!_ The door was chained and padlocked, but Tweek produced a key seemingly from nowhere and the chains slithered to the floor. "Let's go, man!"

"Wait!" Butters said suddenly, grabbing Mysterion's arm. The boy was looking up at his wounded shoulder, biting his lip thoughtfully.

"You're hurt," Butters said softly, reaching up to touch Mysterion's bare skin through the tear in his costume. His touch was light as a feather. "Um...here, let me."

"Wha —" Mysterion began, but all words failed him as tingles began coursing through his body. " _Ngh_!" He hissed, unsure of what was happening. He tried to pull away, but it was as if his mind had been detached from his body, and nothing was working right. The tingles grew and spread, a little uncomfortable at first, reminding Mysterion of that feeling he got whenever his foot fell asleep. Then the tingling became a warm, pleasant sensation, quickly growing in intensity, until every nerve in his body was setting off fireworks in radiant explosions. " _Nggghhh…_ " Mysterion groaned, as the feeling swelled, became _sizzling_ , and then suddenly it was gone and it was as if he'd been spat out of a furnace and _slammed_ back into his body. He actually sagged a little, shaking.

"What the fuck...was that." Mysterion said using Kenny's voice, too shocked to actually frame that statement as a question. Butters was cradling his hand to his chest, looking extremely confused.

"I...it's usually not like that." Butters muttered, with a jerky shake of his head. "I…"

Mysterion reached up and touched his shoulder, realizing it no longer hurt. He tore away the gauze Tweek had placed there, and was greeted with the sight of smooth, pink, unblemished skin.

"Holy fuck," Tweek muttered, his eyes wide. He stared at Butters, opened and closed his mouth a few times, but he couldn't seem to think of anything other than, "...holy _fuck_."

"Who _are_ you?" Mysterion asked, feeling as if he'd just been ripped away from what could possibly have been the most _intense_ orgasm of his life. His voice was even rougher than usual. Butters flushed and bit his lip again, finally meeting Mysterion's dark blue eyes.

"Maybe if we survive this, I'll tell ya." Butters replied, shrugging.

"Sounds like a plan!" Tweek said, grinning. " _Let's go_ , ladies!"

* * *

"He's in here somewhere. Find him, but don't hurt him," Craig Tucker instructed, exhaling smoke. He dropped his cigarette down on the dusty floor of the abandoned theater and crushed it under his heel.

"If you find anyone else...kill them."


	3. Chapter 3

  **2.**

 

"You're right, Tweek. It's all my fault. Clearly, I need to be punished. When we get to Bebe's house, you can bend me over your knee and spank me until my ass is red and chapped."

**~ Mysterion.**

* * *

Mysterion had always wondered why they didn't just use the emergency stairwell for all their comings and goings.

If he had to chose between dealing with Tweek's bullshit security codes or taking the stairs, Mysterion would happily have chosen the stairs. When he brought this up to his partner, however, Tweek just huffed and said, "Emergency exits are for _emergencies only,_ man!" According to him, they needed to have a way to get out of the secret base quickly and easily, just in case the underpants gnomes came seeking revenge, or the government dispatched specially trained CIA assassins, or aliens decided to conquer the entirety of the human race. Mysterion had always thought Tweek's extra precautions were stupid and unnecessary, but he had learned a long time ago that there was just no arguing with the guy's paranoia. As he raced down the stairs with Tweek ahead of him and Butters trailing behind, the sound of the alarm wailing urgently in his ears, Mysterion couldn't help feeling grateful his partner was such a nervous, paranoid little shit. Emergency exits were indeed for emergencies only.

The stairwell was steep and dark, but Tweek navigated the steps with surprising grace for a guy who couldn't be bothered to button up his shirts properly. When they reached the bottom, Tweek held his gun up and peeked through the little hole he had drilled through the door, back when they'd first gotten set up here. Mysterion knew that door opened out on the parking lot behind the abandoned theater, surrounded by a chain-link fence and overgrown with weeds. The Mysterion-mobile/Kenny's shitty Toyota Prius was parked back there, hidden under a tarp. It should have been an easy escape, but when Tweek froze with a sudden gasp, Mysterion realized they had a problem.

" _Jesus_ , man! They're in the parking lot too?!"

Mysterion nudged his friend aside to take a look for himself. A handful of dudes packing obvious heat were patrolling the grounds outside. It was pretty clear from their alert, serious expressions that they'd been told to wait here and keep an eye out for trouble. Tweek grabbed Mysterion's shoulder, shaking him frantically.

"They're going through your _car_ , man! Did you see?!"

Mysterion saw. Two of the guys had ripped the tarp off his baby and were shining flashlights inside, while a third seemed to be trying to jimmy open the door. Mysterion bit the inside of his cheek thoughtfully as Tweek twitched and fidgeted at his side, looking absolutely ridiculous in his Power Rangers pajama bottoms and dirty sneakers. Tweek had been in such a rush he'd forgotten to put on a shirt, and his thin torso was covered with old scars. The 9mm he'd tucked into his waistband made for a stark comparison against his milky skin.

"That's Craig for you," Butters mumbled, shaking his head. "He never forgets to cover his ass. H-he probably has suh-some guys posted in the front, too."

"What are we going to do, man?!" Tweek hissed. "We can't go back the other way, those assholes will tear us apart! This is our only way out!"

"We're going to have to fight our way through the parking lot, then." Mysterion announced calmly.

"What?!"

"Look," Mysterion said, his voice a low growl, "I'll create a diversion. When the coast is clear, you and Butters make a break for the car."

" _No fucking way_ , man!" Tweek snapped, his voice strong in spite of its high, panicky quality. "I'm not leaving you behind! There are dozens of guys out there, _ngh_ , you'll be _killed,_ man!"

"Tweek. You know that doesn't matter," Mysterion snapped back, quickly becoming annoyed with his friend's stubbornness. "Just do what I say!"

"Wuh-wha? How can it not matter?" Butters piped up suddenly from behind him, eliciting a groan from Mysterion. In the dimness of the stairwell the boy looked small and vulnerable, even more vulnerable than Tweek in his pajama bottoms. Butters was confused and upset, his eyes shiny.

"You'll _die_ , ya idiot!" Butters cried, glaring at Mysterion, "Don'tcha _care_ at all?!"

Mysterion opened his mouth to reply, but before he could get so much as a word out, Tweek was shouting at him.

"GAH! _Fuck you_ , you dumb prick! I'm not waiting God-knows-how-long for you to come back just because you want to play a hero!" Tweek brandished his gun at him in a way that made Mysterion take a nervous step back, his eyes wide. Tweek was shaking, shifting from foot to foot, so full of nervous _energy_ he looked like he was going to explode. The dangerous gleam was back in his big green eyes, though, a subtle expression of Tweek's inner strength.

For all his faults, Tweek Tweak was _not_ a guy to take lightly.

"Listen up," Tweek said, thumbing back the safety on his pistol, "we're doing this _together_ , man! Like fucking _partners_. You do your thing and I'll watch your back, alright?! When the coast is clear, we're _all_ breaking for the car! OKAY?!"

"Okay," Mysterion replied, grinning ruefully. "Butters, I want you to keep your head down. Think you can handle that?"

"Wuh-uh, I think I can handle not catchin' a _bullet_ to the face! I'm not gonna run out wavin' my arms around!" Butters shot back, adorably sarcastic. Mysterion grinned harder.

"Jus' one thing," Butters added suddenly, knocking his knuckles together, "If we run into Craig...um, _please_ , don't hurt him."

" _What_? Are you _serious_ right now, kid?" Tweek demanded, peering skeptically down at the blond-haired boy. "Isn't this the guy trying to _kill_ you?!"

"He's not tryin' to kill _me_ , but he'll kill _you_ if you give him half a chance," Butters replied, a little testily. Tweek spasmed and clutched his pistol tighter, grinning almost maniacally.

"I'd like to see him fucking _try_ it!" Tweek muttered darkly, shaking his head so vehemently his wild platinum hair flew in all directions.

"Look, Craig ain't doin' this on his own, he's jus' followin' orders!" Butters insisted. "He's the head of security for...u-uh..." Butters flushed, knocking his knuckles together even harder. "...the head of security," he finished lamely. "An' I owe him a favor, so jus' don't hurt him!"

"The head of security for a shadowy organization, is that it?" Mysterion murmured, reaching into the folds of his cape for his weapons. The superhero pinned Butters with a stern glance, waiting for him to answer. When the kid blushed and looked down in sullen silence, Mysterion cupped his chin and firmly tilted his head back up. He wanted Butters to _look_ at him, damn it, and Mysterion was getting sick and tired of all his evasions. Butters trembled a little, his full lips jutting in a stubborn pout. The boy looked _ridiculously_ kissable when he did that, Mysterion thought idly. Mysterion's gloved hand all but swallowed his chin, but the superhero's grip was gentle and the look in Butters's eyes was wary rather than afraid.

"You keep getting more and more interesting." Mysterion commented, his gaze intense enough to burn a hole in Butters's head, as if he could learn all his secrets if he stared hard enough. "Listen to me. Whether you meant for this to happen or not, we're sticking our necks out for you. I'm a superhero. Helping people is what I do, and I'd like to help _you_ , but until you start answering some of our questions Tweek and I are under no obligations to do you any favors. So if this Craig Tucker gets in our way, he's _dead_." Mysterion smiled, and then added playfully, "Understand, Buttercup?"

Butters's breath hitched in his throat, before he furiously tore himself out of Mysterion's grasp.

"C-condescending _ass_." Butters muttered, wrapping his arms protectively around himself.

"Them's the breaks, kiddo." Tweek said, looking around nervously. "So, uh, are we doing this?! I rigged the elevator to blow if someone punched in the wrong code too many times, _nngh_! We gotta get outta here, man! All this standing around is too much fucking pressure!"

"Yeah," Mysterion replied, throwing one last glance over his shoulder at Butters, "let's do it, dude."

Two smoke bombs were in his hand. He lit them and kicked open the door to the parking lot in one smooth, fluid motion. Craig Tucker's cronies jumped at the sudden noise, raising their guns. Mysterion tossed the bombs, and had just enough time to observe the men's startled expressions and mark their positions in his head before the bombs exploded, filling the parking lot with thick, dark green smoke. Before the goons could react and start shooting indiscriminately, Mysterion surged forward, lithe and graceful as a dancer. The world had become an ocean of smoke, and Mysterion was a shark, while his prey bobbed around like blind, dumb fish.

His first victim didn't see him coming, but that was sort of the point. Mysterion flew at him, executing a flawless jump-kick that knocked the man out in one blow. With his momentum still behind him, Mysterion whirled on the next guy, two razor-sharp ninja stars in his hand. He flung one and it sailed through the smoky air like a deadly frisbee, tumbling end over end until it lodged in the finger bones of his chosen opponent with a sickening _crunch!_ The man screamed and dropped his gun, cradling his bloody hand. Two of the mystery men turned at the sound of their comrade's screams, cursing. One of the guys spotted Mysterion crouched low amidst the drifting green smoke and began firing his gun wildly. Mysterion flipped, his cape swirling, and the bullets hit nothing but air. He threw his second ninja star and the man blasting away let out one short, sharp scream as the points of Mysterion's weapon buried themselves in his eye, splattering blood like raindrops. Before he could scream again, Mysterion knocked him out with a brutal uppercut, and turned to taser his friend into unconsciousness before the guy could recover from his surprise.

That was four down. Mysterion reached into his belt pouch for more ninja stars, but the smoke from the bombs was already starting to dissipate. Mysterion grit his teeth, his taser vibrating in his hand. Without cover he was a much easier, more vulnerable target, and there were at least four more guys to take out. _Damn_!

Mysterion threw another ninja star at the groin of his next target, and watched as the man crumpled into a sobbing heap. _Just three more._ But suddenly the smoke was gone, carried away by an icy wind, and Mysterion found himself standing in the middle of a battlefield with nowhere to hide.

He had forgotten about the storm. Snow fell from a sky the color of stainless steel at a steady pace, and little piles of the stuff had already begun to form around the parking lot, which was now littered with bodies and bullet casings. The three men who'd been trying to break into his car now leveled their guns at him, wearing identical grim expressions of hate. Mysterion tensed, waiting for the inevitable white-hot pain of bullets tearing through his body.

"MYST!" Tweek screamed, before he aimed his 9mm and fired.

 _Bang!_ Tweek's first shot took a guy right in the chest. He reeled, grimacing, and collapsed in the snow.

 _Bang!_ Tweek's second shot hit a dude right between the eyes. Mysterion watched, a little sickened, as bone and brain matter puffed out like chalk clapped from two erasers, spattering all over the roof of his Prius. _Fuck, I'm going to need one hell of a car wash._

 _Bang!_ Tweek's third and final shot took the last man in the back of the knee. Mysterion knew his partner could have killed him just as easily as he had the other two, but he had decided to be merciful because the fool was running away. The guy stumbled and fell face-first, screaming, "DON'T KILL ME! PLEASE!"

The poor guy didn't know Tweek had already spared his life. There had been a time when Tweek might have _vomited_ at the thought of killing someone. All that had changed the day his parents were brutally murdered right in front of him.

The coast was clear and everything was silent, save for the agonized groans of the men still alive. Mysterion let out a breath and stowed away his taser, as Tweek sprinted forward, holding a very pale, very _sick_ -looking Butters by the hand.

"Let's go let's go let's _go_!" Tweek shrieked, and for once Mysterion couldn't have agreed more.

"I'm driving," he said brusquely, snatching his car keys out of his belt pouch. Tweek was a _horrendous_ driver. The Prius chirped once as he unlocked it, and Tweek climbed into the passenger seat while Butters slid in the back.

"Butters. Are you okay?" Mysterion demanded. He didn't like the feverish gleam in the blond-haired boy's aquamarine eyes, or the pallor of his skin. Butters swallowed and nodded.

" 'm fine, jus' get me outta here." Butters replied, sounding shaken. Mysterion bit his lip and nodded, then started the car, revving up to warm the cold engine —

"OH _JEEZE_!" Tweek screamed.

Mysterion turned his head just as someone shot out the driver's side window. Glass flew everywhere, sparkling like diamonds, peppering his face with tiny little cuts.

" _Fuck_!" Mysterion snarled. "My fucking _window_!"

Mysterion looked out through the shattered remains of glass, trying to catch a glimpse of the asshole who was responsible for the uncomfortable call he was going to have to make to his insurance company. And there he was, Mister Tall, Dark and Scowly himself, Craig Tucker, with a dozen or more guys behind him. Mysterion didn't like the cold expression on his face, but he liked the Desert Eagle he was holding even less.

Without warning, fast as a viper striking, Tweek pulled his gun and fired right back. Tweek's bullet hit Craig square in the chest, but the raven-haired man just kind of stumbled backward with barely a grimace of pain.

"Oh my God!" Tweek screamed again, so loud it hurt Mysterion's ears. "H-he's a fucking _CYBORG_ , man! GAH!"

"Craig's not a c-cyborg, he's wearin' a bulletproof vest! He always does!" Butters shouted, cringing in the back seat.

"Bulletproof vest?! That's _hacks_ , man! No fucking hacks!" Tweek growled, aiming again. Mysterion slammed on the accelerator before his partner could take another shot, and his Prius flew out of the parking lot and through the gate with a squeal of tires as gunfire opened all around them.

"Hang on!" Mysterion ordered, driving hard and fast past the abandoned theater, out onto South Park's cold, dark streets. The snow had made the roads wet and hazardous. Mysterion desperately hoped they wouldn't end up at the bottom of an embankment somewhere. After a moment he checked his rearview mirror, wondering if they'd managed to escape. So far, so good.

"Jesus _Christ_ ," Tweek muttered, shivering violently with the freezing air blowing in through the ruined window, "did we make it, man? _Did_ we?"

Mysterion was doing almost sixty miles an hour in a snowstorm, but he wasn't about to slow down just yet. He checked his rearview mirror again. Just like the first time, there was nothing to be seen. Mysterion started to relax, grinning a little.

"Looks like we lost —"

"Look _out_!" Butters screamed, cutting Mysterion off.

A black Dodge Charger roared down a side street, its engine growling like an angry demon, and pulled up next to them. Mysterion jerked the steering wheel hard, and for a terrifying second he thought the car was going to flip. When he glanced over he caught a glimpse of ice-blue eyes and dark hair.

" _Jesus_ , man! He's like the fucking _Terminator_!" Tweek cried, trying to steady himself. His partner had neglected to put on a seatbelt and was sliding all over the passenger side as Mysterion weaved dangerously through the streets with the Charger in hot pursuit. Tweek's pajama pants had slipped down a little, revealing the crack of his skinny ass.

"No way, man, _no way_! How did he even know how to find us?!" Tweek continued, rapidly shaking his head, as if the power of his denial could transport him to a land of sunshine and puppies, "We got away! We fucking _ghosted_ them, man! THIS IS _BULLSHIT_!"

"D'ya _ever_ stop screamin'?!" Butters asked, sounding as fed-up as Mysterion felt.

"WHO'S SCREAMING? I'M NOT FUCKING SCREAMING, MAN! GNAHHH!"

"He found us 'cause I have a trackin' device implanted in m-my back, is all," Butters said, sounding _ludicrously_ calm about the whole thing.

" _What_?!" Mysterion and Tweek yelled in unison.

"You reckon ya wanna _lose_ 'im?" Butters demanded, turning around to look out the back window. "He's gainin' on us!"

"I'm _trying_!"

Boy, was he ever. But the Mysterion-mobile was a 2002 Prius that badly needed an oil change, while Craig was driving a brand new Dodge Charger with four hundred horses under the hood. Mysterion just couldn't shake him. And Craig was closing in _fast_.

"Tweek, can you shoot out that asshole's tires?" Mysterion growled, narrowly avoiding a collision as he weaved recklessly through an intersection. Cars swerved and horns blared angrily, creating a cacophony of sound that set Mysterion's teeth on edge. South Park may have been a redneck mountain town with not much to speak of, but one thing it did have was an _extremely_ enthusiastic police force. If they kept up this high-speed chase for much longer, they would either end up with the cops on their asses or engulfed in a fiery wreck. Mysterion honestly didn't know which was worse.

"Umm…" Tweek said, sticking his head out the window. Craig chose that exact moment to _ram_ them, and Tweek was thrown back in his seat, squealing fearfully.

"Err...no." Tweek replied timidly.

"Jus' pull over!" Butters said suddenly, trembling. "Craig's not gonna give up until he has me back in custody. I don't wanna see you fellas gettin' killed on account of me. Jus' pull over a-and Craig'll let you go!"

"No way, _no fucking way_! He'll probably kill us the _second_ we step out of the car!" Tweek cried, spasming badly. "Craig'll put a bullet in our heads and throw our bodies in Stark's Pond, then take you whether you want him to or not, won't he? _Won't he_?!"

Butters flushed and looked down guiltily. He didn't answer, but the expression on his face spoke volumes.

"Puh-please…" Butters whispered, "I-I'm...not worth it. Jus' push me outta the car and drive away…"

"No." Mysterion replied flatly.

"Buh-but —!"

"We're getting you out of this, Butters. I promise." Mysterion said, glancing back at the blond-haired boy. He couldn't help but notice how Butters's eyes filled with grateful tears, but the kid just bit his lip and shook his head.

"D-don't make promises if you can't keep 'em." Butters muttered miserably.

Craig Tucker rammed them again. The Prius jerked so hard Mysterion's head hit the steering wheel, and there was a solid _crunching_ sound as the Dodge's big grille destroyed the back bumper.

" _Goddamn_ it!" Mysterion shouted, so angry he used Kenny's voice.

"Slow down!" Tweek said suddenly.

"What?!"

"Let him pull up on the side of us, man!" Tweek gestured with his 9mm, grinning a slightly off-kilter grin. "Just when he thinks we're about to give up, _boom_! Headshot!"

"Ain't there a-any other way?" Butters asked quietly, looking so pale and feverish Mysterion wasn't sure how he was even still conscious.

"Look, kid, you wanna be _noble_ or you wanna be _alive_?!" Tweek demanded. There was an edge in his voice that made Butters flinch and rub his knuckles. " 'Cause take it from me _, you can't do fucking do both_!"

 _Tweek_ , Mysterion thought, overcome by a sudden feeling of sadness, _I'm so sorry, dude. I'm so sorry you couldn't save them._

Craig had apparently decided to stop playing around (not that Mysterion thought this had all been for funsies), because he rammed them once more, sending the Prius into a fishtail. The dark-haired man seemed to be trying to edge them off the road, where they would stall out in the snow and gravel. Mysterion managed to straighten the car, white-knuckling the thing with a cold sweat on his brow, but that had been _entirely_ too close and they were rapidly approaching South Park's downtown business district, where traffic would be heavier and a crash would be nearly unavoidable.

"Hng, just _do_ it, man!" Tweek shouted.

"Fuck! Alright," Mysterion said, easing his foot off the gas, "you better make this shot count, Tweek!"

"Jesus man, don't I always?" Tweek snapped. Mysterion could see Butters trembling in the back seat from the rearview mirror, his large, utterly gorgeous blue-green eyes silently pleading for him not to do this, but it was either kill or be killed and Mysterion had no other choice. _I'm sorry, Butters._ Mysterion dropped his speed, letting the Charger get closer and closer, watching as Tweek lined his sights. But then Craig Tucker suddenly drew his Desert Eagle, faster than Mysterion would have believed possible. It was as if the world had slipped into slow motion. He had no idea who would shoot first.

 _Whaaaa-ooooo...wha-oo-wha-oo-wha-oo…!_ A cop car appeared seemingly out of nowhere and joined the chase, sirens flashing. Mysterion groaned.

"Fuck, it's the _cops_ ," he muttered. This night just kept getting better and better.

"Whoa, he's taking off!" Tweek said, sounding exuberant. "I guess the pigs are good for something in this town after all, man!"

Mysterion was so focused on the cops he didn't know what Tweek was babbling about at first. But when he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that Craig had busted a U-turn at the sight of the flashing lights and wailing siren and was busy hauling ass in the other direction. The muscle car hit the corner, whipped left and disappeared, leaving behind only the black and white cruiser with the words _South Park Police Department_ boldly emblazoned on the side.

"He m-must not have wanted to tangle with the cops," Butters said, relief evident in his voice. "...good old b-boring Craig."

"Yeah, but now _we_ have to tangle with them." Mysterion replied, eyeing the car. There was only one, and he thought it looked familiar…

" _Pull over in the name of the law, dudes!"_ A laid-back, nasally voice called over a bullhorn. Mysterion groaned again.

"It's Clyde!" Tweek said, clapping his hands like an excited three-year-old. As long as Mysterion had known the guy, he didn't think he'd ever get used to how Tweek could be a ruthless pragmatist one second and a complete child the next.

"I haven't seen Clyde in forever! Can we stop, man, can we?!"

"No."

"Why noooooot?"

"I'm not stopping the car so you can talk to Clyde."

"But it's _Clyde_!"

"I don't give a fuck."

"Just _five minutes_ , man!"

" _No_!"

"Nghawww…" Tweek huffed, crossing his arms. That seemed to be the end of it, but when Mysterion turned his attention back to the road, Tweek stuck his head out the window and waved madly. "Clyde! Hi Clyyyde!"

" _Tweek? Jesus Christ, is that you, dude?"_

"Tweek, get your ass back in the fucking _car_!" Mysterion ordered, infuriated. Clyde was showing no signs of giving up the pursuit, but he wasn't calling for back-up either. Mysterion rolled his eyes and slammed hard on the brakes. "Fuck it, I'm pulling over."

"Yay!" Tweek said, grinning, but when he saw the expression on the superhero's face he blanched. "Oh jeeze, man! Don't _hurt_ him!"

* * *

 

The department had stuck him the _shittiest_ of shitty graveyard shifts.

Clyde suspected it was because he had fucked up on the narcotics beat, but seriously, how was he supposed to know that totally innocent-looking bag of flour had actually been cocaine? It was an honest mistake, okay? _Anyone_ could have made it! And okay, _okay_ , maybe it hadn't helped that he'd destroyed half a city block, punched out an old woman, gotten robbed by a prostitute and nearly set the station on fire trying to warm up his day-old crunchy wrap all in the first _month_ , but those were _accidents_. _Gawd_. It was like nobody knew the meaning of the words "I'm sorry, dude!" anymore.

Clyde was new to the whole police officer thing, but he was eager to learn and nobody seemed to want to give him a chance. Admittedly, him becoming a police officer had been a huge surprise to all his friends and family. Clyde knew everyone had expected him to turn into a jobless, mooching couch-surfer after high school, and, well...he couldn't blame them for that. Clyde had always been directionless, unmotivated and more than a little lazy, but that didn't mean he didn't have, like, goals and stuff! He had always wanted to be a police officer. It totally wasn't because he'd been obsessed with movies like _Beverly Hills Cop_ , _Lethal Weapon_ and _Rush Hour_ as a kid. Clyde happened to think helping people and catching bad guys was a totally cool, totally noble calling.

Clyde wanted to make _Detective_ one day.

But he had fucked up one too many times already, and Police Chief Token Black had given him the _worst_ shift on one of the _worst_ beats far from anyone or anything as punishment. Clyde couldn't really complain. Token could have stuck him directing traffic or doing security jobs at the mall. It was nice and quiet working this late at night, if really boring and a little lonely. Clyde just wished the boys back at the station would give him a chance to _prove_ himself, to show that he could be an _awesome_ police officer, but it didn't look like that was going to happen any time soon.

Clyde spent most of his shift hanging out in the parking lot of the local Starbucks. He used to hang out at Tweek Bros. Coffee, which was much tastier than the commercialized bullshit they sold at Starbucks, but the coffee shop had burned down almost four years ago in a horrific accident that had claimed the lives of Richard Tweek and his lovely wife. The incident had been all over the news. Back then, there had been all sorts of whispers about foul play and other chilling rumors, but nothing ever came of the investigation, and Richard and Mrs. Tweek's deaths were officially declared accidents. Clyde had been close friends with their son all during high school, but after that incident, Tweek Tweak disappeared. Some people said he'd been sent to a psychiatric hospital, while others claimed that Tweek himself had been responsible for his parent's deaths, and had skipped town to avoid justice. Clyde didn't know _what_ to believe.

All he knew was the last time he'd seen his friend had been as Tweek was being loaded into the back of an ambulance, with bloody hands and a burned torso.

Clyde sipped his caramel macchiato, tiredly listening to the buzzing silence over the police scanner. It was four o'clock in the morning, his shift was almost over, and he was desperately looking forward to the weekend. Maybe he'd go visit his Dad, or stop by his sister's dorm and bug her…

A crappy silver Prius suddenly blew by, closely followed by a mean-looking Dodge Charger. They were both doing _at least_ eighty miles an hour on a street where the speed limit was only 35.

"Holy shit!" Clyde shouted, spilling his drink in his lap. " _Fuck_!"

Hot milk and sticky caramel sauce soaked into his uniform, scalding him. Clyde ignored the pain, started his cruiser and sped out into the night. Clyde briefly considered calling in a high-speed chase and requesting for back-up, but if he managed to catch these reckless assholes all on his own, surely Chief Token would have to see he was capable of handling himself, right? _Right_! Clyde grinned. He was going to be _so popular_ at the next Policeman's Ball!

"Ah, shit, I forgot to turn on the siren!" Clyde did that now, filling the otherwise quiet neighborhood with sound and flashing lights, right on the tails of the speeding vehicles. "Pull over, dudes!"

The driver of the Dodge Charger slammed on his brakes without warning, executing an impressive U-turn and immediately fleeing from the scene. Clyde just barely caught a glimpse of a very pissed-looking man with dark hair. _Crap on a taco._ Clyde couldn't turn around, not without giving up the chase on the Prius, and the man driving the Charger was already halfway down the street.

Clyde rolled down his window and shouted after him, "Yeah, you _better_ run, you pussy!"

He turned and focused his attention on the Prius, still doing breakneck speeds. Clyde picked up the bullhorn. Damn, he loved that thing.

"Pull over in the name of the law, dudes!"

For a moment it looked as if the driver of the Prius was just going to keep going. Clyde was cool with that (he'd been _dying_ to use some spike strips!) but a skinny young man with a scarred chest suddenly stuck his head out of the passenger side window and _waved_ at him, a gun in his hand. Clyde frowned, bewildered, before his hazel eyes widened in shock.

That wild platinum-blond hair, those big green eyes, his morose, horsey face…

 _Tweek_?

"Tweek?" Clyde shouted over the bullhorn, "Jesus Christ, is that _you_ , dude?"

The skinny wild-haired man grinned at him and stuck his head back inside the car as the Prius slowed down and pulled to a quick stop on the side of the road. Clyde pulled up behind it, warily observing the smashed bumper, and climbed out with his service revolver in his hand. That guy had looked an _awful_ lot like Tweek, but...no, it couldn't be…

"Okay, so like, step out of the car and put your hands up dudes!" Clyde ordered, gun raised.

Two men slowly got out.

"Holy shit…" Clyde said for the second time that night, so shocked he lowered his revolver a little, "It _is_ you, dude! And you...you're... _Mysterion_! Holy _crap_ -baskets!"

Mysterion had been a pain in the police department's side for a very long time. Officially, they couldn't condone anything he did, and Chief Token had made it his personal mission to see the guy arrested and thrown into the deepest, darkest padlocked cell he could find. Mysterion was a crazed vigilante who had taken it upon himself to protect this small, redneck mountain town for reasons known only to him, but Token Black didn't stand for Mysterion's brand of ruthless justice. Chief Token was a level-headed man of the law, a man who believed in rules and following them to the letter. Mysterion was a chaotic force for good, and he followed no rules but his own. Clyde personally thought the guy was _cool as fuck_ , but there were lots of other officers who thought differently.

So many cops had tried to catch him before...Clyde oogled the masked and cowled superhero with his mouth hanging open, his hazel eyes so big they threatened to swallow his face. Mysterion just glared at him, his eyes the brilliant, sparkling dark blue of tanzanite gemstones.

If Clyde managed to arrest him, Token wouldn't just promote him to Detective. Clyde was pretty sure the guy would have to suck his _dick_ , too.

"Long time no see, man," the skinny platinum-haired young man murmured, "I always knew you liked bacon, but I never thought you go full pig."

Clyde tore his gaze away from Mysterion and looked the man up and down, disbelief written all over his features. Except for the scars crisscrossed all over his thin chest and the darker, wiser look in his big green eyes, Tweek Tweak hadn't changed much. His hair, which had always been such a wild _mess_ Clyde jokingly used to call him Sideshow Bob, had grown even longer. It stuck out in all directions and covered his forehead in unruly bangs. Tweek desperately needed to put some meat on his bones and there were dark circles under his eyes, but his childhood friend had always been unconventionally attractive. He stood by the side of the car wearing nothing but sneakers and a pair of dirty pajama bottoms with the Power Rangers cavorting around in dramatic poses. With the snow drifting all around, somehow Tweek looked almost as badass as Mysterion did. Or maybe Clyde had just _really_ missed the guy.

"Tweek…" Clyde whispered, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, "...the _hell_ , you spastic fuck."

Tweek's mouth lifted in a wry smile. "Aw jeeze, man, don't cry. All these fucking emotions are way too much pressure."

"The hell, dude!" Clyde cried, lowering his revolver all the way, " _How_ did you... _when_ did you…" Clyde sniffled. "You _disappeared_! I didn't know if you were dead or alive! You couldn't pick up a fucking _phone_?"

"Tch, _phones_. No way, man! Phones are part of Project HAARP, High-frequency Active Auroral Research!"

"Fucking _what_?"

"The government is blasting the sky with energy rays from antennas placed at HAARP's location in Alaska," Tweek continued earnestly, "those rays could then potentially be reflected back into the Earth's ionosphere on an extremely low frequency!"

" _So_?"

"It will _seriously_ fuck up your shit, man! Those low frequency waves are capable of penetrating your fucking _brain_. The government could program your phone to _mind wipe_ you! I'm not going to be a part of that, man, _no way_!"

Clyde stared at Tweek incredulously for a second or two, and then burst into helpless laughter, wiping his eyes. "Oh my fucking _God_ , you're even crazier than I remember."

"You've put on more weight!" Tweek shot back, grinning a little. Tweek's expression quickly became remorseful. "Seriously man...I couldn't call. I just couldn't. I'm sorry, I had a lot of stuff going on."

"Stuff." Clyde repeated dubiously, glancing at the silent, scowling form of Mysterion, "Like hanging out with _vigilantes_? That kind of stuff? You know this guy is wanted, right? If you're caught helping him you're going to be in a whole lot of fucking trouble, dude!"

"So just let us go, man. Walk away." Tweek pleaded.

"Walk _away_?" Clyde snorted, "No-can-do, broseph. I can see about getting you some house arrest, maybe a couple years probation, but that's it." Clyde shook his head sadly. "As for you —"

Clyde whirled on Mysterion and pointed his gun at the masked superhero, grinning, "— you're under arrest, fuckface!"

Mysterion looked amused, but he just lifted his hands in the air. "Arrest me," he said simply, in that low, gravelly voice of his.

Clyde approached him cautiously, reaching for his handcuffs. Mysterion watched him patiently, his thick cowl obscuring half his face.

"No funny business, dude," Clyde warned, keeping his gun trained on Mysterion as he twisted one of the superhero's arms behind his back and slapped the cuff down on his wrist. _Damn, that was easy._ Clyde started to reach for Mysterion's other wrist, smiling happily. Oh man, he could just imagine the look on Token's face…

Mysterion suddenly jerked away from him. Clyde tried to raise his gun again, but the superhero was just too _fast_. Clyde didn't actually see the punch coming, he he sure as hell _felt_ it. Pain exploded across his face, blurring his vision. Clyde cursed, stumbling, and that's when Mysterion punched him again. Clyde's head snapped back, his mind went blank, and he crumpled bonelessly in the snow, knocked unconscious.

Mysterion sighed and reached down to grab the keys to the handcuffs currently dangling from one wrist. He tossed them down on Clyde's unconscious body and trudged back to the car, shaking his head. Clearly, Officer Clyde Donovan was not a shining example of what the South Park Police Department had to offer.

"Satisfied?" Mysterion growled at his partner. Tweek knelt down beside Clyde, gently smoothing back his childhood friend's messy brown hair.

"Bye, Clyde." Tweek said sadly.

In the back of the car, Leopold 'Butters' Stotch breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

"Are you okay, Butters?" Mysterion asked, climbing wearily back into the driver's seat.

"Y-yeah," Butters mumbled, nodding. "Um...thank you. Both of you fellas."

"No problem." Mysterion replied, briefly catching Butters's gaze.

"So, now what?" Tweek asked in a glum tone, flopping down in the passenger seat and immediately drawing his knees up his chest, "Assuming the base isn't up in _flames_ right now, which I seriously doubt, it's totally been compromised, man. We can't go back there, not after a stunt like this."

"We'll figure it out." Mysterion replied calmly, slowly driving away from Clyde and his idling police car. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too long before he came around or someone found him.

"Will we?" Tweek demanded archly, his voice thick and sharp with crankiness. Tweek was paranoid, anxious and easily excited, but he had a _surprisingly_ upbeat disposition most times. He wasn't often cranky (except when he hadn't had his coffee!) and even after all the shit he'd been through, he was rarely ever sad. Tweek Tweak could take an unprecedented amount of bullshit with his usual wry, offbeat humor, but every once in a while the guy would throw down the towel and go, _Nope. Not doing it today. Fuck the world and everything in it._ A cranky Tweek was almost as bad as an angry Tweek, and Mysterion didn't particularly like to deal with either one.

"Figure it out, he says," Tweek mumbles angrily, hugging his knees to his chest, "fuck first and ask for the AIDS test later, he says. Act like _a big dumb prick_ and not follow simple fucking _directions_ , he says."

"Tweek. The hell are you talking about." Mysterion said, so tired his question didn't come out sounding like a question.

" _None_ of this would have happened if you hadn't brought a stranger to the base!" Tweek shouted, frustrated. "How many fucking times did I tell you not to do it, huh?! HUH?! And you did it anyway, because _you_ , my friend, have dick-for-brains! You are _king_ of the Dick Heads! _Rah_! And now we're riding around in your shitty little car with a Sarah Connor _wannabe_ in the back seat, and we have _nowhere_ to go!" Tweek glanced apologetically back at Butters. "N-no offense, kiddo."

"None taken." Butters replied dryly, rolling his eyes.

"You're right, Tweek. It's all my fault." Mysterion deadpanned. "Clearly, I need to be punished. When we get to Bebe's house, you can bend me over your knee and spank me until my ass is red and chapped."

Tweek glared at the superhero, a slight flush rising in his cheeks. "Hmph. You'd _like_ that," he finally muttered, glancing sullenly out the window.

Mysterion's mouth twitched in a smile. "I would."

"Bebe's house?" Tweek asked, perking up a little. "R-really?"

"Yeah," Mysterion sighed, "I hate getting her involved in this stuff, but we're running low on options."

"Bebe," Tweek said again, tasting the name with a goofy grin, "I'd like that. I like _her_. Mmm, Bebe..."

"Please don't." Mysterion tried to sound stern, but there was a wry smile on his face. "She already thinks you're _creepy_ , dude. If she throws us out, we really won't have anywhere to go."

"I wasn't gonna do anything, man." Tweek grumbled, scratching the side of his head. He added in a tone so low Mysterion barely caught it, "...I already know nobody'd ever want me."

Mysterion jerked his head in Tweek's direction, his brows raised questioningly, but Tweek obviously hadn't expected him to catch that last bit, or he was too distracted by his own thoughts. Either way, Tweek had gone back to staring sullenly out the window when Butters piped up urgently, grasping the back of Mysterion's headrest.

"Fellas...stop the car."

"Is something wrong, Butters?" Mysterion demanded, alarmed.

"Jus' stop the car!" Butters sobbed.

Mysterion quickly pulled over, and as soon as he did, Butters jumped out, fell to his knees and vomited in the snow. The superhero watched helplessly at Butters retched and heaved painfully, and when he couldn't take it any more, he knelt beside him and rubbed his back as Butters continued to heave, bringing up nothing but horrible choking sounds.

"Butters, _breathe_. Just breathe." Mysterion urged soothingly. "That's it, take a deep breath…"

" 'm sorry," Butters whimpered, tears streaking his boyish face, "I got sick, seein' all the blood."

"You don't have to apologize, kid," Tweek said softly, kneeling down on the other side of the boy, "Jesus man, you kept it together longer than I would have."

Butters swallowed, licking his pale, dry lips. Mysterion had hoped the kid would feel better after throwing up, but if anything, Butters looked even sicker. _He needs rest and he needs it yesterday._

"We're almost at Bebe's." Mysterion announced firmly, reaching down to help Butters up, but the blond-haired boy remained firmly in place.

"Ya'll are forgettin' somethin'," Butters said, sounding weak, "the trackin' device in my b-back."

 _Oh, shit._ Mysterion and Tweek exchanged horrified, helpless glances as Butters began peeling off his shirt. His small, malnourished frame was covered with more marks and bruises, each one seeming to tell a horrific story of pain. There was a small area of raised flesh near his spine, like a large bump under his skin. Butters reached into his pocket with small, shaking hands and withdrew a tiny folding knife, holding it out for Mysterion to take.

"You gotta cut it out." Butters whispered, his eyes wet with tears, but there was no fear in them, no nervousness, only grim resignation. "As long as I have this t-thing in me, I'll never really be safe."

"Butters..." Mysterion hissed. He felt so sick he thought _he_ was going to vomit. "Jesus _Christ_ , dude."

"M-maybe we should wait until —" Tweek began nervously, but Butters shot him a look of defiance, his eyes flashing.

"No, we _can't_ fuckin' wait! We gotta do this _now_ ," Butters insisted, tightening his grip on the knife, "Craig could be comin' for me _as we speak._ These people will never give up, not until they have me back, an' I'd rather die first!" Butters's chin jutted in a familiar look of determination. "I woulda done it myself, but all I been able to do since I escaped is run. An' I'm real tired of runnin'. I'm so...tired."

Butters's face fell, the exhaustion that had gripped him for God-knows-how-long finally evident in his eyes. His shoulders slumped and an expression of misery crossed his youthful face, too youthful to know such sadness. It took everything in Mysterion not to drop to his knees, pull the boy into his arms and hold him close, rocking gently.

"Don't worry about hurtin' me," Butters added, as if they needed some sort of convincing, "I can heal myself jus' like I can heal other people. I jus' need some rest is all, but we gotta do this _now_ , fellas. If we go to Bebe's house first, you'll jus' be makin' your friend a target."

"Oh _jeeze_ ," Tweek muttered, his voice lacking it's usual high-energy edge. Tweek looked pale and frightened, and Mysterion couldn't blame him one bit. In fact, the only person who _didn't_ seem scared was Butters, even though he was about to endure more pain on top of what he'd already had to put up with. The blond-haired boy was still holding the knife out to Mysterion, his aquamarine eyes calm and sad, but hopeful. After a long moment, Mysterion took it, slowly unfolding the blade. It was small but clean, and wickedly sharp.

"Are you really gonna do this, man?" Tweek asked in a small voice, shaking a little.

 _Do I have a choice?_ Steeling himself, Mysterion positioned behind Butters, eyeing the area where the device was implanted. The knife in his hands felt ridiculously heavy.

"Hold him." Mysterion ordered flatly, and for once, Tweek silently did as he was told. He knelt in the snow in front of Butters, carefully wrapping his arms around the boy's waist. For all his bravado, Butters shuddered violently and buried his face against Tweek's scarred torso, tense and frightened.

"It's gonna be okay, kiddo," Tweek said, giving the blond-haired boy a comforting squeeze, "just you see, after this we'll all go out for ice cream!"

Butters chuckled, the sound muffled. "'Kay."

Mysterion took off his gloves. After a moment, he ripped the mask off his face and let the purple cowl draped over his head fall, his long, hay-colored hair catching in the breeze. Tweek raised a brow at him, surprised, but said nothing.

"Butters," Kenny said, picking up the knife, "are you ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be." Butters lifted his head a little, but didn't turn around. "You sound all different."

Kenny laughed softly. "It's still me. Hold still, okay?"

Butters nodded, and let his head drop against Tweek's chest. Kenny brandished the blade swiftly, his movements steady in spite of his pounding heart. He made a quick incision, and blood immediately welled up and ran down Butters's back in thin red rivers. The boy made a small noise of pain, but otherwise he kept silent and still, his eyes screwed shut. _I'll have to go a little deeper,_ Kenny thought in despair, reinserting the blade. This time Butters whimpered, clinging desperately to Tweek while the older male hummed soothingly. Tweek Tweak was no stranger to pain.

"You're doing good, kiddo," Tweek said, as Kenny began to dig around in the incision he'd made, and Butters couldn't help sobbing because it _hurt so much_ , "Just a little more, man, you can _do_ this! Channel Sarah Connor!"

"Aw, Jesus fucking _hamburgers_ ," Butters half-sobbed, half-laughed, squeezing Tweek so hard he thought he was going to crush him. But Tweek was certainly steadier than he looked, because he just kept right on trying to comfort him. Butters felt a pulse of agony so intense he thought he was going to faint, and for a moment the world became a dull, hellish place where nothing existed but discomfort. After a second that seemed like an eternity, the agony passed and there was only a throbbing pain that was not much better.

"I got it," Kenny said wearily, his voice cracking a little. He tossed the knife aside in disgust, carelessly wiping his bloody hands on his costume. In Kenny's palm was a small, bullet-like device, bluish in color.

"You hear that, kid? You're all set!" Tweek said, trying to sound cheerful. Butters didn't respond. Tweek shifted so that the blond-haired boy was resting in his arms, shaking him a little. Butters hadn't quite fainted, but he was so dazed it was almost as if he'd been drugged. Tweek held his hand out for the device and Kenny handed it over obediently. Tweek held it in front of Butters's face.

"See, kid? Now nobody owns you anymore." Tweek said softly. Butters's gaze was unfocused, but he smiled at Tweek's words, so sweetly it broke Kenny's heart.

"Are you healing yourself, Butters?" Kenny asked, brushing Butters's hair off his brow, which was sweaty in spite of the cold.

"I will." Butters replied faintly, "Jus' tired. Not enough...energy."

"Well, we better get you to a bed then, man." Tweek said firmly. Kenny picked up Butters's discarded shirt and wrapped it around the boy, scooping him up. Butters studied Kenny's unmasked face with his unfocused eyes, looking faintly amused.

"S-so, _that's_ what you look like," Butters observed, smiling a little, "not what I was expectin'."

"Oh? And what were you expecting?" Kenny asked teasingly, as Tweek turned the device thoughtfully over in his hands.

"Someone crazier lookin'," Butters answered earnestly, in his faint, weak voice, "you'd _have_ to be crazy, to run around pretendin' to be Batman o-or somebody. Jus'...I dunno. I wasn't expectin' you to look like a gosh-darned Calvin Klein model."

That comment was so unexpected Kenny laughed out loud, a sound low and rich and playful. Tweek looked up, a smile playing across his own lips.

"You're _full_ of surprises, Buttercup." Kenny said, unable to help the intimate cadence of his voice as he carefully tucked Butters back into the car. Butters frowned a little, his eyes drifting shut.

"Don't call me that," Butters chided, " 'm name's Leopold."

"Hm?"

"Leopold Stotch." Butters mumbled, before unconsciousness finally claimed him. Kenny studied the boy for a moment, and then closed the car door.

"Well, this was fuuun!" Tweek commented lightly, bouncing the device up and down in his hand. "What the hell do you think about all this, man?"

"Honestly? I have _no_ fucking clue." Kenny said, casting one last glance back at Butters. "This is beyond anything we've _ever_ dealt with, Tweek."

"Which is why it's _fun_!" Tweek replied, grinning fiercely. "Hey, wanna see a magic trick?"

Kenny cocked his head, confused. Tweek tossed the tracking device in the air and drew the 9mm that he'd tucked into his waistband. The damn thing couldn't have been much bigger than a standard USB stick, but Tweek shot it almost dead-center. The device exploded into a million microscopic pieces, decorating the snow like glitter.

"And with that, Tweek made it disappear!" Tweek said happily.

"Fucking _show-off_." Kenny said, grinning. "Let's get the fuck out of here, dude."

"Right. Bebe's house." Tweek muttered to himself, climbing back inside the car. "The house of Bebe. Ngh. Right."

Once again, Kenny drove off into the night, the thickly falling snow soon erasing all evidence that they'd ever been there.

 

 

And, somewhere on the other side of town, Craig Tucker was cursing to himself, a scowl on his handsome face.

"God damn it." Craig said, as the GPS tracking Leopold Stotch went dead. "Why me."

Reluctantly, Craig reached into the inner pocket of his suit for his cell phone. The wild-haired maniac's bullet was still lodged firmly in his bulletproof vest.

If he hadn't been wearing it, it would have pierced Craig's heart.

He scowled again.

"Red," Craig said when he was finally able to get someone on the line, his voice deep and sonorous. "There's been a problem. Get Doctor Mephesto on the line."


	4. Chapter 4

**-Interlude-**

" _Kenny_? What in the fresh _fuck_?"

**~ Bebe Stevens.**

* * *

Bebe Stevens pulled her car into the driveway of her modest home, cut the engine, and waited.

She knew it was a stupid, pointless thing to do, but she just couldn't help herself. Bebe was tired. It had been a long night. All she really wanted to do was take a shower and fall right into bed, but even with all these _practical_ concerns, somehow, Bebe just couldn't bring herself to go inside. Instead, she clutched her keys in one hand and her purse in the other, gazing solemnly out into the night with shrewd pale green eyes. Bebe was almost positive that if Kenny could see her now, he would be laughing. To be perfectly honest, Bebe felt like laughing at herself. _Take your ass in the house, beautiful!_ God. How unfair was it that she could still recall his voice with perfect clarity, just like it was yesterday?

Bebe sighed and closed her eyes. She was dressed modestly, in a fur-lined coat, dark jeans and a thick sweater. Winter had returned with a vengeance, so it was only normal to dress snugly, but Bebe tended to wear lots of layers even in warm weather. Being a stripper wasn't exactly an _honorable_ profession (at least according to her uptight-ass father), but as any stripper will tell you, it paid the bills. There was nothing wrong with being a stripper. 

So, fuck 'em.

Bebe wasn't ashamed of what she did, but she wasn't interested in showing much skin in her everyday life, either. Just because she got paid to take her clothes off didn't mean she didn't find the lecherous stares uncomfortable. The only time she truly felt at ease as when she was dressed in her frumpy sweaters and baggy pants. Anything else felt too much like a costume, like she was putting on another sleazy show. When Bebe first met Kenny, she'd thought he might prefer her in tighter clothes, but Kenny had just smiled at her insecurities. _All I care about is if you're happy_ , Kenny told her once.

Maybe that's when she first fell in _love_.

Love. Bebe snorted derisively. What had _happened_ to her? The tough, level-headed, _practical_ young woman who used to roll her eyes at the very notion, who was only interested in looking out for herself, had finally fallen in love and fallen _hard_.

It was too bad the man who'd claimed her heart wouldn't return her feelings.

A disappointed scowl crossed Bebe's face. She'd always been wild and headstrong, smarter than anyone ever gave her credit for. Above all, Bebe was woman who believed in doing whatever made her feel good, whatever empowered her as a person. She was much too confident to _ever_ give into other people's expectations — people could take her or leave her as-is, and _fuck you_ very much. 

Her willfulness had made her into something of a problem child, at least from her parents' standpoint. They'd been conservative, old-fashioned folk who'd firmly believed that their daughter should close her legs like a good little virgin and wait for Prince Charming to sweep her off her feet so she could get married, have babies, and spend the rest of her life cooking and cleaning.

 _Fat chance!_ Bebe's free spirited nature had clashed badly with her parents' need for control. She had rebelled against them every chance she got...probably more than was really necessary. But she was just a kid after all, a young woman with fire in her eyes and something to prove. So when her parents told her to stay in, she snuck out. When her mother slapped her face and called her a whore, she made it a point to have as much sex as possible, just to _spite_ her. When her father set up a date for her with Gary Harrison, a nice, church-going young Mormon boy, Bebe ditched him and hung out behind the arcade smoking pot with Clyde Donovan.

And, when she finally turned eighteen, Bebe moved out of her parents' house and _never_ looked back.

Clyde...gosh, Bebe hadn't thought of him in _years_. They'd gone to school together right here in South Park, had even lived on the same block for as long as she could remember. Bebe had always liked Clyde's relaxed, friendly personality. Donovan had this whole dumb frat-boy thing going for him, but Bebe had always found him oddly endearing, with his sweet face and ridiculous love of tacos. She hadn't even minded his blatant overuse of the word, _dude_ , which normally would have gotten on her last nerve. Clyde had the biggest, most _obvious_ crush on her, and Bebe had liked him enough to seriously consider dating him once upon a time, but after graduation they'd all gone their separate ways.

South Park was the sort of town where everyone knew _everyone_ , no matter what you were doing or what part of town you came from. Regular kids like Bebe Stevens, Clyde Donovan, Tweek Tweak and Stan Marsh had all gone to the big public school. Rich kids — or least those who had parents who could _afford_ it — had gone to the fancy private school across town, like Wendy Testaburger, Eric Cartman, Token Black and Kyle Broflovski. Others had either attended smaller schools on the _bad_ side of town, or learned everything they needed to know at home and in the streets. Kenny claimed to be one of those people, but he was so damned _mysterious_ about his personal information Bebe could never be one hundred percent sure of anything he told her. It was _vexing_ , to say the least.

Some people had gone away for college, only to come right back. Others had stayed, and tried to make something of themselves in this small mountain town. Bebe still heard the names of her childhood friends mentioned, even ran into people she recognized every once in a while, but everything had changed. She really didn't mind. Everyone had to grow up at some point.

Including her. Bebe was stupid enough to think she was ready for the world at eighteen, but smart enough to know that her looks could take her places. So she became a stripper. In her defense, it was only supposed to be _temporary_ , just until she figured out what she really wanted to do with her life. But she never figured it out, and the money was good enough to make her overlook a lot of distasteful things about the place. So Bebe, being eighteen and headstrong, stuck around. She convinced herself that she could leave any time. When the manager grabbed her ass one day in the break room, she overlooked it. When a guy she was giving a lap dance got a little handsy and the other girls told her to "just roll with it", Bebe overlooked that, too. She had finally won her independence, and Bebe wasn't going to give it up. Crawling back to her parents was the same as admitting defeat.

Besides, it wasn't all bad. She met Kenny while she was dancing at the club, after all.

He was so intriguing, even back then. A bit on the short side but devilishly handsome, with a playful smile and sensuous dark blue eyes, all the girls had a crush on him, Bebe included. He never got dances, though, never partook in the club's activities. Kenny came in two or three times a week and sat by himself at the bar, drinking with a contemplative expression on his face. Occasionally he'd light a cigarette, and none of the girls had the heart to tell him it was a no-smoking section, not even the bartender. The girls in that place flirted with him _constantly_. Kenny would always flirt right back, with the silver tongue of a playboy, but he never did much more than that.

Bebe waltzed right up to him one day and lit his cigarette for him as Kenny was searching through his pockets for his cheap lighter. Kenny seemed amused at that, his dark blue eyes twinkling as she leaned seductively forward, her big, perky breasts on display. Bebe always knew how to play up her best assets. She grinned at Kenny mischievously and took a seat right next to him at the bar, ignoring all the other girls' jealous looks.

"It's _Kenny_ , right?" Bebe said, drumming her fingers lightly on the countertop.

"That's right. How did you know?" Kenny replied, his lips quirking in a wry smile. Kenny had a surprisingly high voice for a guy, light and soft, a little teasing. Bebe rolled her eyes.

"Don't act coy. Every girl in here knows your name. They're all just _dying_ to know more about you."

Kenny laughed softly. "They'd be disappointed. I'm not interesting at all."

"Somehow, I _seriously_ doubt that." Bebe said, shaking her head. Her long fall of strawberry-blonde ringlets shimmered in the lights as she did so. "There's just one thing I have to ask...why do you come to a strip club just to have a few drinks? You _do_ know that everything at the bar is overpriced as hell, don't you? You could go to _Skeeter's_ and get the same whiskey sour for half the price."

"You know my name _and_ what I drink?" Kenny asked, raising a brow. "I'm _flattered_."

"Don't avoid the question," Bebe admonished gently. "So?"

Kenny shrugged. "I'm just like any other guy who goes to a strip club. I'm here for the girls."

"Hmm, see, I _might_ actually believe that if you ever got any dances. But you don't. In fact, if the girls hadn't flirted with you first, you wouldn't have noticed them at all, am I right?"

"You're a regular Sherlock Holmes. I noticed _you_ , though." Kenny replied, his tone lowering to an almost-seductive level. Bebe was no stranger to being flirted with. Her job was all about acting like she was interested in the disgusting guys who frequented the place so she could earn her tips, but Kenny's intimate cadence made her blush all the same.

"Maybe I don't get dances because I can't afford you lovely ladies," Kenny continued, chuckling. "Last time I checked, looking was free."

"Oh?" Bebe bit her lip, and said impulsively, "Would you like a dance from me, then? On the house."

Kenny looked at her, studying her face with those dark blue eyes of his, eyes that were _impossible_ not to get lost in. Bebe had no idea what he was thinking, but his stare made her blush even harder, glancing away, and that had _never_ happened to her before. Bebe prided herself on being bold. No man's gaze had ever made her fidget like a nervous schoolgirl.

"Sounds nice," Kenny eventually murmured, "but I have to refuse, beautiful. I just wouldn't feel right taking all your hard work for free."

"But what if I didn't it consider it work?" Bebe asked, her tone challenging. "What if I did it just because I damn well wanted to?"

"Well, that'd be a different story!" Kenny said, laughing at her fierce tone. "Still...maybe next time, beautiful."

"Alright," Bebe said, fighting to keep her disappointment off her face. She stepped away from the bar, her hands on her voluptuous hips. "Enjoy your drinks, then."

"It's _Bebe_ , isn't it?" Kenny called after her, before she could escape and lick her wounds of humiliation in peace. Bebe turned, her eyes wide with surprise.

"I...yes. How did you know?"

"Don't act coy," Kenny said, teasingly parroting her earlier words right back at her, "Every man in here knows your name. They're all just _dying_ to know more about you...myself included."

"Ah…" Bebe hadn't known what to say, so she'd just smiled awkwardly and walked off as fast as she could. She could feel Kenny staring at her the entire time.

They became friends after that. Bebe made it a point to talk to Kenny at the bar whenever he came in, even though it was cutting into her tips. She even got him to accept that free lap dance, eventually. Bebe took Kenny by the hand and led him to a private booth the second he agreed. She danced as slowly and tantalizingly as she knew how, but halfway through, when she could no longer _stand_ the sexual tension, Bebe stuck her tongue down his throat and jerked him off. Kenny came helplessly, spilling himself into her hands, and afterward she nestled in his lap while he stroked her hair. Bebe faked sick so she could leave early with Kenny that night, and it still counted as one of the best, most _satisfying_ decisions she'd ever made.

But they'd always only been friends. Kenny trusted her enough to tell her some of his deepest and darkest secrets, while Bebe loved him with her all her heart. She would gladly do _anything_ for him. Friends were all that they were, though. Just _friends_. The word tasted bitter as poison to her now. Kenny had told her from the very beginning that he didn't do relationships, and Bebe had gone and fallen in love with him anyway, because she was headstrong...and an idiot.

 _You said you'd see me if you ever needed me,_ Bebe thought sadly, shivering in the now freezing car, _but I haven't seen you in over a year. I guess you never really needed me._

Shaking her head at her own foolishness, Bebe Stevens got out of her car and went inside.

She was immediately greeted by her cat, Muffins. Bebe reached down to scratch Muffins behind an ear when he rubbed up against her legs, and was just about to pull her sweater over her head when her doorbell rang. Despite the fact that she'd just been longing so desperately for Kenny, the _ding-dong!_ chime made her freeze up, her pale green eyes widening in fear. It was almost five o'clock in the morning. No normal person would have dared to stop by her place at such an ungodly hour. Bebe approached the door cautiously, her heart hammering in her chest. She looked through the peephole, but the falling snow had fogged it up and she couldn't see anything. _The ax-murderers are working late, apparently._

The doorbell rang again, but this time it was followed by a sweet, familiar voice. "Bebe? Open up, beautiful."

Bebe gasped, and threw open her door. Her heart was soaring with joy, but the sight that greeted her nearly made her recoil with fear again.

" _Kenny_? What in the fresh _fuck_?" Bebe blurted, staring at her beloved with wide, horrified eyes. Kenny rubbed the back of his neck and smiled self-consciously.

"Hey babe," he said, meeting her gaze almost tentatively, "something, uh, came up. Mind if we crash at your place for a bit?"

Bebe opened and closed her mouth helplessly. Kenny was dressed in his Mysterion costume, but his face was uncovered and his cowl was lowered. His handsome mug was covered with tiny cuts and there was blood smeared on his clothes, but thankfully, none of it seemed to have come from him. Kenny had two duffel bags, one on each shoulder, and his hands were bare and stained dark brown with more dried blood. Standing behind him was Tweek Tweak, his wild platinum-blond hair even wilder than usual from all the snow and the wind. He was wearing a dirty pair of Power Rangers pajama bottoms and an even dirtier pair of sneakers, but nothing else. Tucked into the waistband of Tweek's pajamas were two 9mm handguns, and the sight of them made Bebe's blood run cold. His ugly, scarred torso filled her with disgust, but Tweek refused to meet her gaze no matter how hard she glared at him, choosing instead to shyly study the ground between his feet. In Tweek's arms was a small, unconscious boy wrapped in a faded flannel shirt. Just like Kenny's costume, it was also smeared with blood.

"Bebe," Kenny said again when she just stared silently, frozen in place, " _Please_ , babe."

The pleading note in Kenny's voice finally snapped Bebe out of her shock. Without another word, Bebe stood back so they could enter her home, filing in like weary soldiers returned from war. Tweek immediately made a beeline for one of her couches and gently eased the unconscious boy down.

"Okay. So what happened?" Bebe asked, proud of how calm she sounded. Tweek just kind of fidgeted anxiously in response to her question, but she hadn't been expecting a _decent_ answer from that nut-job anyway.

"Mysterion stuff," Kenny answered, his voice laced with a weariness Bebe had never heard before. "It's a _hell_ of a long story, Bebe. Tweek and I got into some major shit tonight."

"Yeah, I can tell." Bebe replied dryly. Her voice softened and she hugged herself. "What's up with the kid? Is he...going to be okay?"

"He'll be fine." Kenny rubbed the back of his neck again, smiling faintly. "He can heal himself."

" _Excuse_ me?"

"Yep. As in _spontaneous regeneration_. And not just himself, but other people, too." Kenny couldn't help smiling at Bebe's utterly confused expression. The voluptuous young woman looked as if she had just been sent to a bizarre parallel universe.

"Spontaneous...regeneration." Bebe repeated slowly, as if they were nonsense words. "Really."

"Really," Kenny sighed, "like I said, it's a long story."

"Apparently! Look, I trust you Kenny, you know that. But this _long story_ of yours had better be a damn good one, too, because you aren't making _any_ fucking sense right now!" Bebe replied heatedly.

"I know," Kenny said softly, and then he smiled at her again. That smile had always melted her heart. "Thank you, Bebe."

"Yeah, yeah," Bebe muttered, shaking her head. _I'm so hopeless around him._ "Fine, you can stay as long as you need to. Tweek and the kid —"

"Butters."

"Huh?"

"Leopold," Kenny said softly, gesturing toward the unconscious boy, "his name. Leopold Stotch."

"...Okay," Bebe said, vaguely wondering why Kenny had felt the need to interrupt her with that tidbit, "Tweek and Leopold can share the guest room downstairs, or Tweek can use my couch, if he wants." _I don't really want him on my couch, or even in my house, but…_

"We can share my room upstairs," Bebe continued, pulling spare blankets out of a linen closet, "Shower, kitchen...you know where everything is, Ken. Help yourself." After a moment, Bebe added grudgingly, "You too, Tweek."

Tweek twitched at the sound of her voice. "Y-yeah. Thanks, man. Uh, I mean, B-Bebe. Thanks _Bebe_. Ngh, you're not a man. I meant it in a _non-gender specific_ kind of way, man, l-like —"

"Tweek." Bebe snapped, her voice full of warning. Tweek flushed and closed his mouth.

"Thanks," Kenny said again, running his stained hands back through his long hair, "I mean it, babe. I'll find a way to make this up to you."

"You don't have to make anything up to me, Ken," Bebe said softly, her arms full of blankets, "you've already made it up to me more times than I can count. So c'mon, let's get you guys settled."

By the time they got everything "settled", a pale dawn was breaking over the horizon, signaling a new day in the small town of South Park.

Tweek decided to share the guest room with Butters, mostly because he would have felt much too uncomfortable crashing on Bebe's nice couches. Butters hadn't stirred once, and was now comfortably bundled up in bed, while Tweek had made himself a pallet out of spare covers on the floor right next to it, staring blankly at the framed picture of his parents. His twin 9mm handguns lay on the floor beside him, within easy reaching distance.

He was pretty goddamned exhausted, man, but Tweek couldn't sleep. Sleep had never come easy for him to begin with, and ever since his parents had died, his insomnia had gotten even worse.

"Hey Mom. Hey Dad. You guys would have been _totally_ proud of me tonight," Tweek whispered to his parents' picture, sadly studying their happy smiles. "I did something. I helped someone. See?"

Tweek carefully set the picture aside, but still, he couldn't sleep. He got up, paced anxiously around the room, lay back down and stared blankly up at the ceiling. Tweek thought he could hear Bebe and Kenny talking, but surely that was just his imagination. Sighing, Tweek rolled over and found himself staring up at Butters's peaceful, sleeping face. The covers had slipped down from around the boy's shoulders, so Tweek got up again to adjust them, carefully tucking Butters in.

"Hey, kiddo. Been a big night for you too, huh?" Tweek muttered. He didn't stop to wonder why he was talking to a _sleeping_ person. Maybe he just needed someone to talk to. Or maybe everyone was right, and he was just _crazy_.

"Hope you feel better, kid. For the record, you were tough as nails!" Tweek sat back on the floor, still studying Butters's face. He scratched the side of his head, running his long fingers through his hair. Sometimes, when the sun hit it just right, it looked almost silvery. But that was pretty rare. Tweek had a love-hate relationship with going outside.

"How much do you wanna bet they'll talk, she'll cry about feeling abandoned, Kenny will make up some excuse why he didn't keep in touch, and then win her over with a charming smile and a witty retort?" Tweek asked Butters, dropping his chin into his waiting palm, "And then they'll bang, man. Of course they will! It's, like, a _foregone conclusion_ , man. As inevitable as the sunrise."

Tweek leaned back, closing his vivid green eyes. "I think Bebe's room is right above ours. _Jeeze_ , man, I hope they're at least discreet about it. I doubt it, though. Kenny's a real stud. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge, man. We might get showered in debris from the ceiling, kid. Oh _God_ , he might bang her so hard he severs her uterus _in half_! Better pray Bebe's vagina holds up against all that banging, man! Imagine if you woke up with your severed uterus between the sheets? All that blood. And mucus, probably. Yeah. Not cool, man."

Tweek opened one eye, smiling a little. "Am I being mean?"

Butters shifted a little in his sleep.

"Ngh, I didn't think so. You seem like a real nice kid, you know?"

Tweek shifted again, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his head on his folded arms. He was quiet for a long time, listening to Butters's steady breathing in the dimness of his borrowed room.

"I think you probably understand, kid," Tweek murmured, "what it feels like to be so lonely you think you're going to _drown_. Do you get what I'm talking about, kid?"

Silence and the sound of breathing.

"Do I sound bitter, man?"

More silence, more breathing.

"Yeah," Tweek said, nodding. "Yeah."


	5. Chapter 5

**3.**

"The hell!" Stan cried, frowning darkly. "Why are you partnering me with this _idiot?_ He can't tell his dick from a _flashlight!_ "

"Not according to your _Mom_ ," Clyde replied smugly, "I used both on her last night."

**~ an overheard exchange.**

* * *

Craig Tucker was very good at pretending nothing was bothering him. His ability to remain cool and expressionless under pressure was probably why Doctor Alphonse Mephesto had promoted him to head of security, but the truth was...well…

The truth was that this place had always _creeped_ him the fuck out.

Craig had showered and dressed in a suit so dark blue it looked black, the expensive tailoring perfectly complementing his broad shoulders and slim waist. Dr. Mephesto hadn't _sounded_ angry over the phone, had even insisted that Craig get some rest and come talk to him in the morning, but Craig knew better than to trust the old man's friendly tone. Leopold Stotch was vitally important to Mephesto and his research, and Craig knew damn well that the lunatic wouldn't be happy until he had Leopold back. _Damn it all._

Craig _dreaded_ the conversation to come. He was supposed to be the head of security for the South Park Genetic Engineering Ranch, the best of the best, and yet somehow the boy had managed to escape on _his_ watch. As if that weren't bad enough, Leopold had evaded capture for days, proving himself to be a lot more resourceful than his innocent looks had led Craig to believe. As infuriating as it had been to have the boy slip through his fingers time and time again, Craig couldn't help feeling a certain amount of grudging respect. It would only be a matter of time before Craig found Leopold and dragged him back kicking and screaming, but the kid was smart, and extremely determined. Those had always been traits Craig admired.

 _Admiration_ didn't change the job he'd been tasked with, however.

Leopold escaping from the lab in the first place wasn't entirely Craig's fault. Failing to capture him not once, but _multiple times,_ definitely was. By now, the whole damned facility would know that he'd mucked it up yet again, and the thought of what these useless eggheads must be saying made Craig want to grind his teeth into a fine white powder. It was one thing to underestimate your quarry, but quite another to be foiled by a man who had nothing better to do than to parade around as costumed superhero, and a guy who still wore Power Rangers fucking _pajamas_. Idiots. God, if there was one thing Craig hated more than anything else in this world, it was _idiots_. Craig was a man who liked rules and routines, who enjoyed doing things by the book. He loathed surprises and firmly believed in the power of common-fucking-sense, but nothing seemed to be making any _sense_ right now.

The idiots were making him look bad.

"Fuck my life," Craig muttered as he stepped into an elevator.

The lower levels of the Genetic Engineering Ranch were normally off-limits to all except for a select few, and Craig was one of the few. It wasn't something he was proud of. The laboratories down there were huge and extensive, filled with things Craig would have been perfectly happy never knowing existed. When the elevator chimed to a stop on B4, Craig immediately headed for Mephesto's office, ignoring the curious looks he received. As far as Craig was concerned, ignoring people was one of his most useful skills. Craig strolled past men and women in lab coats, past sterile rooms with million-dollar machinery, past cages upon cages of animals who would never see the light of day, never know what it was like to walk on grass, never know a moment that wasn't filled with cruelty and pain. Monkeys rattled the bars that sealed their cold prisons, screeching. Mice with strange growths chittered at the sight of him. A dog watched him go with its nose pressed against his cage, his sad brown eyes full of mute appeal.

Leopold had once looked at him like that. Craig's hands tightened into fists at his sides, but he ignored everything and kept going.

Doctor's Mephesto's office was lavish. Craig slipped inside and quickly closed the door, filled with trepidation. Mephesto was seated behind his desk carefully going over some reports, but he smiled when Craig entered and beckoned him closer. Craig couldn't help but notice that smile didn't reach Mephesto's eyes, which were small and hard as black diamonds. He also couldn't help but notice that they weren't alone.

Rebecca Schwartz, better known simply as _Red,_ was also in attendance. She was leaning casually against Doctor Mephesto's desk, watching Craig with a sly smile. Unlike Mephesto, Red's smile _did_ reach her eyes, but that didn't make Craig feel any better. In fact, it sort of made him feel _worse_. Craig frowned at the sight of her, but Red just laughed off his disapproving look, dropping him a seductive wink.

Craig frowned even harder.

Red was a slender young woman with full lips, big brown eyes and long red hair, which was probably how she'd earned her nickname. Beautiful, capable and utterly ruthless, Red ran the security team as his second-in-command, but she'd been gunning for his position for years. With Craig's latest string of fuck-ups, Red obviously sensed her opportunity to take over. Red liked to play the sweet, empty-headed harlot, but Craig knew that was all just a facade. Lurking underneath all her coy smiles was a cold, deadly and focused center.

"Good morning, sexy." Red purred. When Craig simply glared at her, his pale blue eyes flinging icy daggers, she _tsked_ and shook her head.

"What, I can't even get a simple, lousy hello?" Red whined, "After I stayed up all night _worrying_ about you? You're a cold-hearted bitch, Craig."

 _No, that would be you_. Craig highly doubted Red had been up all night. If she had, it was because she'd been eagerly waiting to hear that he'd died. Craig disregarded her and turned his attention to Mephesto, a small, wrinkled prune of a man in his early seventies. Mephesto had a penchant for tacky Hawaiian shirts, and he wore an old brown hat over his thin gray hair. He could easily have passed for someone's kindly old grandfather with his benign, harmless looks, but Doctor Mephesto was the furthest thing from kindly or harmless. Craig was standing before a dangerous madman, a selfish egotist who paraded around as a well-meaning philanthropist.

"Doctor. I wanted to apologize for last night's...events." Craig said tonelessly. "I have no excuse for what happened."

"There's no need to apologize, my boy," Mephesto sighed, "this has been a trying time for all of us."

 _It's been an *annoying* time for me._ "If you give me another chance, I swear I will succeed in apprehending the target. There _won't_ be any more mishaps."

"Seriously?" Red scoffed. "With all due respect, Doctor, Craig has fucked up this mission every step of the way. First he let Leopold escape -"

"I did _not_ let him escape," Craig said, his deep voice even and controlled.

"Really, now? Correct me if I'm wrong, but did he _not_ escape on your shift?" Red replied waspishly.

"Yeah," Craig shrugged, "right out the back door that _you_ were supposed to be watching. So tell me, where were you, Red?" Craig asked, staring her down unflinchingly. "Too busy giving blowjobs in the processing room?"

Red flushed with anger. "You son of a bitch -"

"If I'm at fault, then so are you."

"Like _hell_ I am!"

"Stop this pointless in-fighting _immediately_!" Mephesto snapped, slapping a hand down on the desk. Craig lowered his head respectfully, while Red trembled with the effort of holding in her rage.

"Craig, I know you will succeed, my boy!" Mephesto said, and _God_ , Craig _really_ hated when he did that, tried to act like all _fatherly_ , "There's a reason I named you head of security. You're the best tracker I have and your instincts are top-notch. Quite frankly, there's no better man for the job."

Red made a small noise of outrage, but held her tongue. Craig simply nodded. He had never been the type of person to accept praise humbly, because he already _knew_ he was good at what he did. Maybe that made him arrogant, but Craig honestly didn't give a fuck.

"In fact," Mephesto continued mildly, "I'm _positive_ of your satisfactory results, because Red is going to help you capture the boy."

Craig blinked. "What."

Red's reaction was a lot louder and more dramatic, "Oh, _fuck_ no!"

"You are," Mephesto replied, shooting her a glance that shut her right up.

"Doctor," Craig said, shaking his head, "you know I work best alone."

"I am well aware. I'm also aware of the fact that you lost my most precious subject to a man wearing _tights_ and a _cape_ ," Mephesto replied with mock-cheerfulness, "so having Red back you up could only improve your chances. She's going, and that's the last I want to hear from either of you on the matter."

Craig and Red exchanged a glance. She did _not_ look happy about this, but then again, neither was he. _God-fucking-damn it. This just keeps getting better and better,_ Craig thought, fuming on the inside while his expression remained calm and impassive on the outside. Truthfully, he had only himself to blame for this one. Craig had never given Doctor Mephesto any reason to doubt him, but losing Butters to a so-called superhero? Now that was just _embarrassing_. Craig briefly clenched his jaw, before he forced himself to relax. There was no use getting worked up over things that were out of his control. As distasteful as Red could be, she was not without her own special uses. Maybe if they worked together, they could finally put an end to this shit-show and Craig could move on with his life.

"Have we learned any other details concerning the manner of Leopold's escape?" Craig asked crisply, deciding then and there to get right down to business. "I think we can all agree that there's no way he could have accomplished this without help."

"There are fail-safes," Red added glumly, "even assuming the stuttering brat was able to slip out of his cage on his own, he would have had to punch in no less than three door codes to get outside of the facility, and there's absolutely no way he could have known what those were. Nobody saw him leave, either. Which leads me to believe he was either smuggled out, or -"

"Someone tampered with the video feed to give Leopold a clear shot to the door," Craig said. "I was manning the security station for most of the night, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. It was only after we discovered he was gone that I realized the cameras were on a loop."

"An inside job, for sure." Red said, grinning nastily. "Someone with intimate knowledge of this facility and access to the lab."

"It had to have been one of the researchers." Craig said, frowning thoughtfully. "Besides Red and myself, the rest of the security team has limited access to the…specimens. Someone hacked the cameras, then they released Leopold. As for the door codes, he or she would have had to either punch them in for him, or give them to Stotch so he could punch them in himself. There is also the fact that his tracking device was temporarily disabled to buy him some time. No one but a researcher would have known how to do that. But who, and why?"

Red's eyes glinted with mischievous cruelty. "Perhaps we need to have ourselves some interrogations, honey."

"Save your efforts. I already have a team working on discovering who helped my precious Butters escape." Mephesto said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Rest assured, when I discover who is responsible for this, I will deal with him or her _personally_. I want you two to focus on _finding_ him. What of his tracking device?"

"Deactivated," Craig replied unhappily, "Leopold must have figured out how to remove it himself, or someone removed it for him."

"Do you think it was this…" Mephesto's nose wrinkled in distaste. "Superhero?"

Craig shrugged. "I have no way of knowing for sure, but it seems likely."

"Who is he?" Mephesto demanded.

"The townsfolk call him _Mysterion_ ," Red answered, with a laugh and a toss of her coppery red hair. "He's a bit of a celebrity in South Park. A vigilante for justice and _quite_ the playboy, I hear."

"A lunatic." Mephesto scoffed.

 _Another classic case of the pot calling the kettle black._ "...Unfortunately, I have no idea who this man could be."

"Find out," Mephesto snapped, "use any means necessary. If he's hiding Butters, I want him _dealt_ with."

Craig nodded. "What about the police?"

"What _about_ them, my boy?"

"We no longer have the aid of a tracking device," Craig replied evenly, "as such, our search has just become a lot more difficult. If this... _Mysterion_ person is helping Leopold, then our attempts to recover him could potentially draw unwanted attention. The last thing I need to deal with right now is a bunch of redneck _cops_ on top of everything else," Craig finished in a dry, cranky tone.

"Don't worry about the local law enforcement. They won't be a problem, I'll make sure of it." Mephesto replied, with a knowing smile.

"How?" Red asked dubiously.

"Mayor McDaniels and I have an agreement. As long as I keep pumping money into this wretched town through my organization and all my "charitable donations", I get to run my genetic engineering ranch unimpeded." Mephesto replied smugly. "All it takes is one phone call. Like I said, you don't have to worry about the South Park PD."

 _So basically, you've bribed the mayor to hell and back._ Craig nodded. "Very well. Red and I will resume the search."

Mephesto inclined his head, smiling a little too broadly. "Good luck out there, my boy. When you find Butters, do be _gentle_ with him! He is, after all, my most valuable discovery."

 _Your most valuable discovery? Yeah right. He's just some poor kid you tortured and experimented on for almost a year, and I don't blame him one bit for running. If I were in Leopold's shoes, I would have done the same._ Craig nodded again and turned away without another word, trusting that Red would follow, but not really caring if she did one way or the other. Suddenly he wanted to get out of the same room as this twisted old man as soon as possible, but Mephesto called out to him just as Craig was reaching for the door.

"I have the utmost confidence in you, my boy." Mephesto said. "Should you fail, however, don't bother coming back."

Craig stiffened, his grip on the door handle tightening. He didn't turn around and he didn't say a word. Craig stepped out into the hall as quickly as his long legs could carry him, stubbornly ignoring Red's breathless attempt to catch up.

"Hey," Red snapped, "slow down!"

Craig kept going until he reached the elevator, mashing the call button with unnecessary force. Mephesto's words rang tauntingly in his ears, pissing him off. _Fuck you, you crazy bastard. What if I don't *want* to come back?_

The elevator arrived almost immediately, opening with a soft metallic swish. Craig slipped inside and Red bustled her way through, looking deeply annoyed.

"Well, this _sucks_." Red said as the doors closed, crossing her toned arms over her small bosom.

"I don't like this any more than you do," Craig replied in his deep monotone, "but if all you're going to do is complain, I'd appreciate it if you _fucked off_ right now."

"Go to hell, you arrogant twat! _My_ job is on the line here, too." Red grumbled. "After this mission we can go right back to hating each other, but for now I _suggest_ we work together on this."

Red shuddered violently, and added, "Unless _you_ want to end up as one of his experiments!"

Craig scowled as the elevator arrived at the first floor lobby. He waited the barest second for the doors to open, and then immediately headed outside. Red trailed after him, her high-heeled boots _click-clacking_ on the polished floor. Craig was such a tall bastard he took one step for every two she made, but Red didn't particularly mind. She got a _great_ view of Craig's tight ass from back here, after all. Red smiled wickedly. Craig carried himself like a king amongst peasants, all straight clean lines and stoic confidence. He was so imposing he cut through crowds like a sharp knife through paper, leaving behind only the faint, spicy scent of his cologne. Craig Tucker wasn't winning any awards for being the most approachable guy in the world. He had the personality of a crotchety old man and a blunt, abrasive way of speaking, but he was so damned _handsome_ Red couldn't help wondering what it would be like to take him to bed all the same. It was too bad Craig had never seemed interested in women...or men, for that matter.

Craig pushed through the lobby doors and breathed in the cold, fresh morning air. The snow had finally stopped, blanketing the town of South Park in a fresh layer of white, but it was obvious from the gray skies overhead that it wouldn't be long before it was snowing again. Red shivered and frowned as Craig reached into the pocket of his suit to withdraw a packet of cigarettes. It was perhaps his one and only unhealthy indulgence, and Craig sighed as he lifted the slim stick to his lips and inhaled smoke, let it calm his frazzled nerves. Red couldn't help watching in fascination as Craig's pale blue eyes closed briefly.

He really was a _gorgeous_ man.

"Alright," Craig clipped, snapping his eyes open, "I agree. We should work together on this. Do you have any suggestions? What do you know about Mysterion?"

"Whoa, slow down tiger." Red laughed, feeling oddly pleased that Craig had asked for her opinion. "I don't know anything about Mysterion that half the town doesn't already know. He's South Park's self-appointed defender, but as far I can tell he's only ever prevented relatively minor crimes. He's been a thorn in the Police Chief's side for _years_. Nobody knows who he is or why he's doing this. Mysterion has something of a cult following on the internet -"

"Nerds." Craig said flatly.

"- but he's always been an _underground_ celebrity, at best. There are lots of folks who are convinced it's all just a hoax."

"Hoax my _ass_." Craig snapped. "He took out eight of my guys last night."

Red cocked her head and regarded him curiously. "Haven't you ever heard of him before?"

"I never paid any attention." Craig replied simply. It was true. For such a small, sleepy, average, nowhere, pissant redneck mountain town, South Park had its fair share of colorful characters, and _then_ some. Craig actively tried to avoid each and every one of them. He didn't need that kind of _nonsense_ in his life. Craig already had enough bullshit to deal with.

"Fair enough," Red said mildly, "I suppose we need to figure out how we're going to track Mysterion down, then. I just hope the brat is still with him."

Craig hesitated for a moment, and then said slowly, "...There was a man with him."

"A man?"

"Yes," Craig said, thinking back to last night, "he was slightly above average height, very skinny, with platinum-blond hair and dark green eyes. He appeared to be working with Mysterion, and was in possession of two 9mm handguns." Craig scowled suddenly, exhaling a thin plume of smoke.

"I've never seen anyone shoot like that." Craig said, sounding both irritable and impressed. "He was fast and his aim was perfect."

_If I hadn't been wearing that bulletproof vest, he would have killed me. Fucker._

Red looked extremely amused. "Anything else?"

"His hair was wild and unkempt. He was wearing Power Rangers pajamas." Craig paused and thought some more. "He had scars on his chest. Burns, I think."

" _Fascinating_. Can you recall any other details, hm? Did he make you feel all _fluttery_ inside?" Red leaned forward conspiratorially. "Do you see his face every time you close your eyes?"

"No." Craig snapped, quickly becoming annoyed with Red's sly smile. "For all the damage he caused, Mysterion did not actually seem to be trying to _kill_ anyone. This man, however, had no such reservations. If we run into him again, _I_ will take care of him." _Payback is a bitch, asshole._

Craig did _not_ appreciate near-brushes with death.

"Fine by me, tiger! Never let it be said that I stood in the way of true love," Red replied, thoroughly enjoying the icy look Craig shot her. "So what are you planning to do, honey?"

"I'm going to turn over every rock in this piss-pot of a town until I find him."

"God, that's _so_ boring," Red replied, rolling her eyes. "Do you have _any_ imagination at all?"

"If you have a better idea, I'm all ears. If not, shut up."

"I _do_ have a better idea, as a matter of fact," Red cooed, grinning. "It occurs to me that whoever this Mysterion is, he must have a raging hard-on for protecting this town and the people in it."

"So." Craig had a bad habit of not framing his questions with the proper inflection that actually _made_ them questions.

" _So_ , if we want to catch Mysterion, we have to give him something to _protect_." Red said, winking at Craig's blank expression. "You and I are going to create a situation he can't possibly ignore, and when he comes running to play the daring superhero, we're going to capture him." Red laughed. "It's as simple as that, honey. Now, aren't you glad Doctor Mephesto made me tag along?"

Craig glared at her for a moment...but he had to admit, it was a pretty good idea. He tossed his cigarette down in the snow.

"Let's go."

* * *

Kenny took a quick shower and dressed in his work clothes.

He had forgotten to pack his toothbrush, so he used Bebe's, regretfully obliterating all traces of the sweet taste of her. Kenny stole a quick glance at himself in her bathroom mirror and decided he didn't look too bad for a guy who had been up all night dodging bullets. There were bags under his dark blue eyes, but the puffiness wasn't especially noticeable. _Not unless someone gets close._

Kenny ran his hands tiredly back through his long blond locks. He'd stayed up until the wee hours of the morning getting Bebe all caught up with the situation, but talk of Tweek and Butters and their high-speed flight through the streets of South Park had somehow segued into talk of what Bebe had been doing since the last time he'd seen her, and how much she had missed him. After that, one thing led to another until the next thing Kenny knew, he was in her arms.

Being with her again had been comforting, but then again, it always was. Bebe was plush and warm, and her touch had a soothing effect on him. All in all, it had been a pleasant end to an extremely stressful night, but Kenny sort of wished it hadn't happened. He'd only gotten two full hours of sleep and all the exertion he'd put his body through had manifested as a definite soreness in his muscles. But besides that, Kenny had promised himself that he wouldn't go getting Bebe's hopes up any more, and he'd gone and broken his promise. _Again_.

Kenny sighed and left the bathroom, easing into Bebe's bedroom as quietly as possible. She was deeply asleep, her glorious body wrapped up in a sheet. Kenny wasn't the only one who had been up all night. Like him, Bebe was a night owl who kept late hours even when she wasn't dancing at that sleazy club. She probably had to work tonight, come to think of it, so Kenny was glad to see her getting some rest. He knelt down beside the bed and pressed a kiss to her brow, smoothing back her soft ringlets.

"Sweet dreams, beautiful," Kenny murmured, before he climbed to his feet and crept silently out of her room, closing the door behind him.

Kenny knew Bebe was in love with him. He wasn't as dense as Tweek thought he was. Kenny simply couldn't return her feelings, no matter how many times he'd tried, holding Bebe in his arms in the darkness wondering what it would be like to have a normal life. He _did_ love her, but it was a mild kind of love. Bebe deserved someone who would devote himself to her completely, someone who would support her and provide an unshakable sense of stability. Kenny couldn't do any of those things. He _cared_ for her, but he didn't want to _be_ with her. Kenny didn't want to be with _anyone_. He just couldn't deal with actual relationships or the monogamy and responsibility that went along with them.

Kenny thought he heard Bebe whisper _I love you_ when she orgasmed last night. Ugh...he really didn't need this added complication. He had avoided seeing her almost a year, hoping that she would realize he wasn't worth attaching herself to. That hadn't worked at all. Having an honest, adult conversation about it would have been the mature thing to do, but...

Kenny wasn't exactly known for his maturity.

_I shouldn't have imposed on her. As soon as Tweek wakes up, we'll figure out somewhere else to go._

Bebe would probably be hurt, but it would be better for all of them if he didn't stick around.

 _Better for her, or better for you?_ A mocking voice asked somewhere deep inside, but Kenny shoved that thought under a mental rug and headed downstairs to Bebe's living room, where curiosity made him turn on the TV. He flipped through the channels until he found the local news station, and watched incredulously as a familiar fat-assed face gave a live report.

"The peaceful town of South Park was rocked by a sudden explosion of violence last night," Eric Cartman intoned solemnly, as the camera panned out on the charred remains of the abandoned theater - Mysterion's _former_ secret base - surrounded by police tape. "Civilians reported hearing gunfire in the early morning hours, followed by a high-speed chase between two unknown perpetrators. Police believe the disturbance all started right here, but no one seems to know how or why. Several bodies were discovered, but so far, the police have been unable to make any positive identifications."

Kenny shook his head. Watching Eric Cartman act like he had some manners never ceased to amaze him. There was a quick cut back to Gary Harrison in the newsroom, looking mildly concerned.

"Thank you Eric." Gary said calmly, looking like perfection personified in his nice gray suit. "Do the police have any leads in this troubling case?"

"No, Gary, no they don't." Cartman replied, shaking his head with mock-sadness. "But I think we can all agree, the recent rise of gun violence in our fair town can only have one cause - Mayor McDaniels' new illegal immigration bill."

Another quick cut back to Gary in the newsroom. Kenny had to admit, Gary was good at not freaking out on camera, but he couldn't help but notice that the man had gone from looking _mildly_ concerned to _very_ concerned. "Err...how so, Eric?"

"Oh, I'll _tell_ you, Gary." Cartman said, smiling. "McDaniels has made her soft stance on illegals no secret. But as you and I both know, _those people_ bring guns and lower property values everywhere they go. McDaniels let them in, and now look what we have here. Bloody rampages in the streets! Think of the _children_ , Gary. Where does it end?"

Eric Cartman lowered his head, as if he were suddenly overcome with emotion. Then he looked straight into the camera and said passionately, "The illegals are taking over our town and I don't know when it will end. Eric Cartman, reporting live."

"...Thank you, Eric." Gary said back in the newsroom, looking both weary and mortified. "So, how about we go to the weather -"

Kenny turned off the TV, shaking his head. _Jesus Christ._ He couldn't help wondering where Wendy was. She was the one who usually did all the live reports while Cartman manned the newsroom with Gary, precisely because whenever Cartman did a report he figured out some way to spin the whole thing into hateful propaganda. Kenny supposed he'd find out once he got to work. By night he was Mysterion, a dark warrior for justice, but by day...well…

By day he was simply Kenny McCormick, a lowly janitor for the _South Park Gazette,_ the town's premier independent newspaper and reporting agency.

Kenny had been expecting to see Tweek sprawled out on Bebe's couch, but he wasn't there. Tweek must have shared the spare bedroom with Butters, then. Kenny strode down the hall and opened the door to the guest room as silently as possible, peering inside. Both of the room's occupants were asleep. Kenny slipped in, his movements quiet and controlled with long years of practice. He checked on Butters first, drawn by concern and a curiosity for another person that he'd never really felt before.

Butters was bundled up tight. Kenny crouched down so he could gently pull the covers away from the boy's face and studied him carefully. The ugly bruises that had marred his fair skin had already mostly faded away. Butters looked peaceful and utterly _adorable_ lying there, his fuzzy honey-blond hair sticking up in all directions. The kid had been so _fearless_ last night, never once complaining. Just who _was_ Butters, though, and why did those people want him so badly? How did he acquire such an amazing ability? _Butters didn't seem all that enthusiastic about it…_

Then again, Kenny was willing to bet that Butters's abilities and Craig Tucker's persistent attempt to capture him last night went hand-in-hand. Kenny smoothed Butters's hair away from his face, his touch light. He so was smallish Kenny couldn't help thinking of him as a kid, but Butters was a young man, really. He'd said his name was _Leopold Stotch_ just before he passed out. Leopold...it was a _nice_ name, if a little formal and old-fashioned, Kenny thought. Somehow, he vastly preferred thinking of the kid simply as Butters. _Or Buttercup. But he doesn't like that as much._

Kenny leaned in and kissed Butters on the brow. His skin was warm and dry under his lips. Suddenly it just felt like the right thing to do, but Kenny couldn't help wondering why he bothered, why he found the damn kid so fascinating…

_Stop thinking, Kenny. You'll just hurt yourself, and this isn't what you came in here for._

Right. Kenny stood up and walked around the bed to look down at Tweek. His partner had made a bed for himself out of Bebe's spare blankets and was sprawled on his back, snoring softly. Kenny shook his head affectionately. It was nice to see the twitchy, paranoid, excitable bastard in a moment of stillness for once. Mysterion had always preferred to be a lone crusader, but Kenny honestly didn't know what he would have done without the guy. _You saved my life, you crazy bum. Why the low self-esteem?_

But Kenny knew why. He sighed and decided to save his conversation with Tweek for later. The guy already had problems getting enough sleep as it is. Kenny bent down and kissed Tweek lightly on the brow too, because fuck it, why not? He'd already kissed Bebe and Butters so he might as well complete the set before he left for work, but no sooner had Kenny pulled away then he heard a soft _click!_ and found himself staring down the barrel of a 9mm.

_Crap._

Kenny froze, and watched as Tweek's vivid green eyes narrowed and then focused up at him. When Tweek saw it was just him, he relaxed and lowered his gun, running his free hand wearily over his face.

"Jesus, man!" Tweek muttered, sitting up, "You know better than that! What if I'd fucking _shot_ you?"

"It's fine. I know you always look first," Kenny teased, but Tweek was clearly unamused. The skinny blond glared at him, tucking his 9mm securely back into a fold of his makeshift bed. Then he flopped back down and pulled his cover halfway up over his face, so that only his eyes and the top of his crazy hair could be seen.

"Look first my _ass_ ," Tweek said, his voice muffled, "if you wake me up like that again I really _will_ shoot you, man. What the _hell_ were you doing, anyway? Were you trying to give me a goodbye kiss?"

It was obvious from the sneer in Tweek's voice he didn't know that was exactly what Kenny had been doing. Kenny smiled innocently. "I already did."

Tweek glared at him again. His dark green eyes seemed to say, _I don't know if you're playing with me or not, but I'm *really* not in the mood for this._ Kenny just continued to smile at him innocently, until Tweek finally let out an aggravated sigh.

"I don't believe you." Tweek said glumly.

"I know you don't, handsome." Kenny replied seductively.

"Jesus, man, what do you _want_? I'm about two seconds away from getting up and kicking your _ass_!" Tweek snapped, and Kenny couldn't help laughing because his partner was usually never this rude. But it was early, Tweek was chronically sleep deprived, and he hadn't had the ten or so cups of coffee he needed to fight the effects of the deprivation. Kenny actually kind of liked seeing Tweek like this, all blunt and mildly threatening, but he decided it was probably in his best interests not to push it.

Tweek _could_ kick his ass, after all. Or at least, give him one hell of a run for his money.

"I'm sorry I woke you up," Kenny said sincerely, "I wanted to get your opinion on our next move, but it can wait until later, dude."

"Damn right it can," Tweek mumbled, closing his eyes. "Are you really going to work? How many hours of sleep did you get, man?"

"Enough," Kenny lied, "and yeah, I'm going. I don't really have a choice. I kind of _need_ this job, you know."

"Sucks, man. You're just another cog in the corporate machine." Tweek replied, cracking an eye open. "You should do what I do and freelance."

"Not everyone can be a hacker for a living." Kenny said dryly.

"Hey! I'm not _just_ a hacker," Tweek protested sleepily, "I do web design, too."

"Whatever, dude," Kenny laughed, straightening up. "Fair warning, I don't think Bebe likes coffee. So if you want your fix, you're going to have to go to Starbucks or something."

Tweek shot up, looking absolutely horrified. "Oh _God_ , you kidding me?!"

"Sorry, dude." Kenny shrugged.

Tweek bit his lip, fidgeting anxiously. "Um...can't you just -"

"Nope," Kenny said firmly, already knowing what Tweek was going to ask. "I don't have time to get your coffee, dude. You're just going to have to put on some clothes and go _outside_. It's not going to hurt you."

"You don't know that." Tweek muttered darkly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ngghh...fine."

"Look, dude, if you're really that freaked out about it, just ask Bebe to stop by the store when she wakes up," Kenny suggested, "I'm sure she won't mind." The look Tweek gave him was curious. It was an expression that was partly annoyed, partly hopeless and partly disbelieving. Kenny didn't like it.

"Are you _serious_ , man? No fucking _way_! She'll just l-look at me like I'm some kind of..." Tweek drifted off, flushing with shame under Kenny's patient look.

"Just _forget_ it, I'll do it. Jesus..." Tweek grumbled, crossing his skinny arms.

"Okay, Tweek." Kenny replied, eyeing his partner searchingly. "Look, I have to go. We'll talk later, dude. Keep an eye on Buttercup."

"Yeah." Tweek said, sighing. "Peace-out girl scout."

* * *

Clyde was trying very, _very_ hard not to cry. Which was kind of hard, considering that Token Black had been _yelling_ at him for almost half an hour.

Clyde sat in the hard chair across from the police chief's desk with his shoulders hunched and his head down, his throat tight with unshed tears. Every once in a while he would let out a sniffle, but he managed to bear the tongue-lashing like a big boy, and Clyde couldn't help feeling a little proud of himself. That is, until Token finally stopped yelling.

The sudden silence was deafening and deeply uncomfortable. Clyde swallowed and peeked up at the man, watching as Token took a deep, calming breath, before he clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. The police chief looked like he was taking a nice power nap, but Clyde could tell from the tightness in his jaw that Token was struggling not to leap across the desk and _throttle_ him with his bare hands. The pathetic report Clyde had written documenting last night's incident with Mysterion lay on the desk between them, slightly crumpled from Token's rage. Clyde licked his lips, trying to think of something to say, but he couldn't seem to come up with a single thing that wouldn't result in him getting fired and/or punched in the mouth, and he'd had _enough_ abuse for one day, thank you very much! So Clyde just kept silent, fearfully studying the well-built, aristocratic lines of Token's face, and when that got boring he looked around the office, observing all the medals and plaques of outstanding achievement of the walls.

Minutes passed. Clyde shifted in his seat anxiously, wincing at the farting noises the leather chair made. Normally any kind of gas probably _would_ be coming from him, especially after Taco Bell put those delicious little bean burritos on their 99¢ menu, but this time it was _totally_ the chair. Token didn't acknowledge the suspicious sounds and he didn't look up, however. Clyde shifted again, but it was as if his sheer stupidity had transported Token's consciousness to another plane of existence, leaving only his body behind. Clyde frowned. The silence was _really_ starting to freak him out and if Token was going to fire him or give him traffic duty, he kind of wished the guy would just do it already.

"Chief…" Clyde began, finally mustering up his courage, but Token snapped his big brown eyes open the moment he heard Clyde's voice and stared at him flatly.

"Be quiet." Token said, slowly unclasping his hands. Clyde flushed and closed his mouth as Token gave him a look filled with weary disappointment. The shiny gold police badge attached to Token's navy blue suit glimmered in the overhead lights of his office. Clyde was suddenly convinced he was about to be fired, and the thought filled him with panic.

"Please," Clyde pleaded, forgetting that Token had just told him to be quiet, " _please_ , Chief! Give me another chance!"

"I've already given you a dozen chances, Donovan." Token said, shaking his head. "There aren't that many chances in the world. Either you are cut out to be a police officer or you're not. And I'm really starting that think that you're not."

"But I _aammm_!" Clyde shouted. He was trying hard to sound forceful and convincing, but whenever Clyde was this upset he just came off sounding whiny. His hands were shaking and his eyes were stinging, "I've wanted to be a cop ever since I was _kiiddd_!"

"Why?" Token asked sharply, "So you can ride around pretending to be John McClane? I don't care how many Hollywood flicks you've seen, Donovan. Being a police officer is nothing like the movies. This is a difficult, demanding and dangerous job. It takes real _dedication_ to do what we do. Quite frankly, I'm not sure how you made it through the academy, much less lasted a whole six months on the force. I'm sorry, Donovan, but you're just not ready for this."

" _Screw_ you!" Clyde snarled. The words flew right out of his mouth before he could stop them or think about what he was saying. Clyde slapped his palms down on the desk, ignoring Token's arched brow.

"People have always thought I was never going to amount to anything, but all I've ever wanted to do is be a cop!" Clyde cried passionately. "I want to help people, catch criminals and make this town a safer place, _okay_?! I worked _hard_ at it, harder than I've ever worked on anything in my _life_! I _know_ I can do this, but how the fuck am I supposed to prove myself working graveyard shifts by myself, huh? You've set me up to fail before I could even really get started, and now you're going to _fire_ me over something like this? You _know_ that's not fair, Chief!"

Clyde was breathing hard by the time he finished his rant, the tears he'd been struggling to hold back finally slipping down his flushed cheeks. He wiped them away angrily and plopped back in his seat, as Token stared at him with an unreadable expression. _Great, just fucking great. Now I'm going to be fired for sure._

"I'm not going to fire you," Token sighed.

_Huh?_

"I'm giving you a partner," the police chief continued, watching as Clyde's expression went from misery to shock. "You're right. I haven't really given you a chance to show what you can do, but you have to own up to your own mistakes, Donovan. This _isn't_ a game."

 _A...partner?_ Clyde gulped, nodding gratefully. "I totally understand, dude. Uh, I mean, Chief. I know I've screwed up in the past, but I _am_ ready for this."

"We'll see." Token replied cryptically, picking up the phone on his desk and quick-dialing his secretary. "Perhaps I have been a little hard on you, but this _really_ is your last chance. Screw up again and you can leave your badge at the door."

Clyde nodded again, his head spinning. He was going to be getting a _partner_. Who?

"Can you tell Stan Marsh to report to my office, please?" Token asked his secretary politely. "Thanks."

Well. Stan Marsh, apparently.

Clyde's hazel eyes widened at the name. Unlike Clyde, Stan was a damn super cop. He was tall, athletic, _unfairly_ handsome and highly ambitious. Clyde had always thought Stan was a bit of a douchebag, personally, but perhaps that sentiment stemmed from jealousy on his part. Why the hell was Token pairing a screw-up like him with an otherwise good cop like Stan, though? A few moments later Stan walked in, shooting Clyde a wary glance before nodding respectfully at Token.

"Sir. You called me?" Stan asked.

"I did. Have a seat, Marsh." Token said, indicating the chair next to Clyde. Clyde couldn't help noticing the slight grimace on Stan's face as he sat down, scooting his chair away as if Clyde was a human-shaped bag of dog poop. _Act high and mighty all you want asshole, we're partners now,_ Clyde thought smugly. _Surprise!_

"Stan," Token said without preamble, "I'm assigning you and Donovan to work together until further notice."

The look on Stan's face was _priceless_. He stared at Clyde, his cornflower-blue eyes filled with horror, before whirling around to give Token the same horrified look.

"Chief, you're _joking_." Stan said, shaking his head.

"I'm not." Token deadpanned.

"The hell!" Stan cried, frowning darkly. "Why are you partnering me with this _idiot_? He can't tell his dick from a _flashlight_!"

"Not according to your _Mom_ ," Clyde replied smugly, "I used both on her last night."

Stan's face contorted with rage, but before he could spit out a reply, Token reached inside his desk and slapped a stack of papers down.

"You want to know why I'm partnering you with Clyde?" Token demanded, sounding angry, " _This_ is why!"

Clyde stared curiously at the papers. _Application for Detective_ jumped out at him immediately, along with Stan's name. _Whoa!_ Clyde sat back and looked at Stan incredulously, while Marsh flushed and drooped a little in his chair.

"What the hell is this supposed to be, Marsh?" Token demanded, jabbing at the application, "You've been a cop for less than a year and you think you can waltz in and make _Detective_? That's _not_ how this works! There are guys out there who have been doing this for _years_ , and you think just because you have a few arrests under your belt and a hot-shot attitude that you can do what they do?"

 _Jesus-fucking-tacos,_ Clyde thought, _I want to be a Detective too, but even *I* know better than to apply after less than a year._

Token pawed through his desk until he found a bright red pen and wrote APPLICATION DENIED right through Stan's name. Douchebag or no, Clyde couldn't help feeling sorry for the guy.

"Aw- _awww_!" Stan groaned. "Dude…"

"You're reckless," Token said, pointing at Stan, "and _he's_ irresponsible. I'm partnering you together in the hopes that you both can learn something. Now _get out_ , both of you."

Stan and Clyde had no choice but to do as they were told, slinking out of Token's office with their tails between their legs.

Clyde could _feel_ Stan Marsh's fury. The guy was so pissed Clyde was surprised he didn't see steam coming out of his ears. Clyde regarded him warily.

"Bummer," he said, grinning when Stan turned and leveled him with an infuriated stare. "Welp, looks like we're going to be rolling deep for a while! I don't know about you, dude, but I could _totally_ use a crunchy-wrap to lift my spirits."

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

* * *

Kenny could hear yelling from outside the building.

He put on his headphones and headed inside, but left off the thumping classic rock that would get him through his eight hour shift. Nobody ever paid the janitor any attention, and with his drab overalls, ratty baseball cap, beat-up sneakers and old headphones the men and women of the South Park Gazette paid him even less. Which was perfect, because that meant he heard _everything_. Kenny gathered up his cleaning cart and the trash bin and headed for the source of the disturbance, the newsroom. The cameramen had left for the day following the morning broadcast, leaving only Gary, Wendy, Cartman, and the Gazette's manager/editor-in-chief, Herbert Garrison.

Wendy was _livid_. Kenny eased the cleaning cart off to one side and began sweeping the floor, watching the scene unfold surreptitiously. Cartman was standing beside the newsdesk looking extremely bored, while Wendy stood before him with her hands on her hips. Her eyes were shooting _fire_ , but Kenny couldn't help noticing (and appreciating) the way her professional white blouse and black pencil skirt hugged her in _all_ the right places. Gary was on the other side of the room, rifling through a filing cabinet trying to pretend he wasn't listening, while Herbert Garrison, a man who was already gray and balding in his early forties, sat behind the newsdesk nonchalantly turning the pages of a Vogue magazine.

"You sabotaged my news van," Wendy hissed, narrowing her eyes at Cartman. "You had _no fucking right_ to do that report!"

"You have no fucking right to go around making baseless accusations, hoe." Cartman replied calmly, smirking at Wendy's expression. "You were unprepared, and, let's face it, _unprofessional_. If you can't handle a little competition, get your ass back in the kitchen."

"You fat, slimy, sexist son of a _bitch_!"

"Whoa, um, Mr. Garrison, are you hearing this?" Cartman said, glancing down at Herbert. "This woman is _clearly_ out of control."

"Ooo, this is nice…" Herbert said, peering down at his magazine. He wasn't paying Cartman or Wendy the slightest bit of attention, and after a moment, realizing that he wouldn't get any backup from either of his coworkers, Cartman turned back to Wendy and scowled.

"Calm your tits, _bitch_ , I can do all the reports I want!" Cartman shouted. "Respect my fucking authoritah!"

"If you sabotage my news van again, I'm going to stick my foot so far up your _fat ass_ you'll be tasting your own bullshit for a week!" Wendy roared back.

Kenny slowly shook his head, listening to Cartman and Wendy trade vicious insults and threats. It seemed like not a day went by when they weren't at each other's throats. Kenny honestly didn't know how they hadn't killed each other yet - or rather - how _Wendy_ hadn't killed _Cartman_ yet, because despite all his verbal abuse it was obvious he had a little thing for her. Their relationship was filled with the most awkwardly one-sided sexual tension Kenny had ever seen. Wendy really seemed to despise Cartman, and Kenny couldn't blame her. Cartman was a fat, intolerant, manipulative, sexist _asshole_. He wouldn't know basic human decency if it came up and shit on his face. Whether Cartman actually liked Wendy or simply wanted to get in her panties was up for debate, but he was such a raging douchebag he repulsed her time and time again.

Which was exactly why Kenny had accepted a bet with Mr. Garrison about it. One day after work, standing out on the terrace bumming a cigarette from the man, Kenny had casually brought up the topic. Mr. Garrison said it would never happen and Kenny said it would, but Mr. Garrison had been so sure of himself he'd promised to pay Kenny five hundred dollars if Cartman and Wendy ever hooked up. If he lost, he got nothing. If he won, he was five Benjamins richer.

Terrible? Yes. Potentially lucrative? _Very_.

"Oh God damn it, would you two shut the hell up?" Herbert said, after almost twenty more minutes of arguing. "I'd rather watch a sex tape starring Rosie O'Donnell than listen to you two go at it."

"It's not my fault this bitch is crazy!" Cartman insisted. Wendy flushed with color, then grabbed Cartman by his tie and yanked him close, cutting off his air.

"Fuck with me again and I will make you _pay._ " Wendy promised, her dripping venom. She gave Cartman's tie another hard yank and watched him struggle with a satisfied smile on her face, when but the jerk began to turn purple Mr. Garrison rolled his eyes.

"I'm not helping anyone dispose of any bodies, just so you know," he said, going back to his magazine.

Wendy released Cartman, spun on her heel and stormed off, leaving Eric choking and gasping. She walked right past Kenny without ever knowing he was there, but then again, she always did. Kenny watched her go under the brim of his baseball cap, admiring the subtle sway of her hips, the way her long black hair just brushed the top of her perfect ass. He had often wondered what she would think if she knew Mysterion and the lowly janitor who worked at the Gazette were one in the same, but he'd decided it was _much_ more fun this way. Kenny subtly inhaled the floral scent of the perfume Wendy left in her wake. She looked damn good in clothes, but even better in nothing at all...Mmm…

Kenny smiled. Perhaps Mysterion ought to pay another visit…

Kenny felt something hit him square in the chest, and winced as the scalding liquid splattered all over his clothes and the floor. Immediately he was assaulted by the smell of coffee, and turned to see Cartman standing there, glaring at him with disdain in his dark brown eyes.

"Clean this place up, you poor piece of shit!" Cartman snapped, before he, too, stormed out of the newsroom, muttering curses under his breath.

Kenny stared at the mess Cartman had made, his overalls now soaked. He felt a well-justified urge to grab Cartman by the collar and beat his fat ass to within an inch of his life, but then he'd be _fired_ , and he still needed this job. Kenny clenched his teeth, trembling with rage.

"You fucking asshole," he snarled.

"Sorry about that," Gary Harrison said, appearing out of nowhere with paper towels in his hand. Kenny accepted them stiffly, even though it was kind of moot at this point.

"Thanks." Kenny muttered.

Gary smiled. "Hey, why don't we go have a drink some time? My treat."

Kenny nodded with the same stiffness with which he'd accepted the paper towels. Gary took his leave. There was nothing intrinsically wrong with Gary Harrison. He was actually a _really_ nice guy, but his cheerful attitude and outward perfection really rubbed Kenny the wrong way.

"Fuck you, Gary." Kenny muttered darkly, viciously grabbing a mop.

Mr. Garrison shook his head. "A real boy scout, that one. I wonder how many times _he's_ taken it up the ass."

"Heh." Kenny actually kind of liked Mr. Garrison.

Kenny cleaned up the mess, and then sighed, checking his watch. He'd only been here for...forty minutes. Another seven hours and twenty minutes to go.

Just another cog in the corporate machine.

* * *

Kyle Broflovski removed his lab coat, his goggles and his sterile surgical gloves, washed his hands, and headed for the researcher's break room.

He wasn't particularly hungry, but he needed something to take his insulin medication with. Kyle swiped his keycard and headed tiredly inside, nodding politely to the lone female researcher sitting at a table checking her phone. He made a beeline for the cold, freshly-prepared snacks and grabbed a yogurt parfait. The researcher's break room was quite nice, filled with not only standard vending machines, but sandwiches, salads and fruit cups delivered twice-daily. When Kyle first graduated from the University of Denver and got hired as a researcher for the South Park Genetic Engineering Ranch, he used to think it was _so_ cool. He could still hear his mother's nasally voice in his head, bragging to anyone who would listen that her son was a _scientist_ , working for an _exclusive private laboratory_ , doing much better than any of her friends' sons.

Kyle had been embarrassed by his mother's obnoxious fluffing, but also a little proud, too. Sheila Broflovski had pushed both of her sons hard growing up, but she'd been _especially_ tough on Kyle, and now it finally seemed as if all the AP classes, stress, lack of sleep and zero social life had paid off. As far as Sheila was concerned, all Kyle needed now was to find a nice Jewish girl and get married.

Kyle rolled his eyes at the thought.

He grabbed a plastic spoon and popped the tab off of his parfait, scooping up yogurt and granola disinterestedly. He used to think this place was cool, and that he was awfully lucky to be so young working in such a rewarding field...but now, all Kyle wanted to do was leave it all behind.

He'd become a researcher hoping to find a cure for cancer, not to stain his hands with blood.

Kyle didn't notice the female researcher staring at him until she spoke.

"Broflovski, isn't it?" She said. Kyle glanced her, struggling not to let his displeasure show up on his face. Can't a man have _one_ damn moment to himself?

"Yes." Kyle snapped, immediately going back to his parfait. He hoped she would get the hint.

She didn't. "Have you heard about Number Seventy-Five?"

_Number Seventy-Five. Leopold Alec Stotch, otherwise known as Butters. Male, nineteen years of age. Ability to heal rapidly and with greater finality from injuries; ability to heal others to varying degrees. Immunity to poison not fully tested; was given a small dose of toxin and recovered after his immune system adapted to the foreign substance. Planned to give him a larger dose. Ability to regrow limbs not tested. Planned to cut off his pinky toes. Broken bones tested...stab wounds tested...burns tested...tested...tested…_

"Hey!" The female researcher said good-naturedly. "Did you hear what I said?"

Kyle blinked. "Huh? Oh...sorry," he muttered. "What were you saying?"

"I _said_ , Doctor Mephesto believes a researcher helped Number Seventy-Five escape," the woman repeated, "and he's _not_ pleased, to say the least. I heard he has Bill Allen and Fosse McDonald looking into the situation." The female researcher shuddered. "He must really be upset if he'd use _those_ two loons."

Kyle felt cold. "I...see."

"I heard Mephesto plans to deal with the researcher who helped Seventy-Five _personally_ ," the woman said, going back to her phone, completely oblivious to Kyle's pale, bland expression. "I mean, who would be _dumb_ enough to do something like that anyway? If you ask me, they deserve everything they get."

"Yeah. I totally agree," Kyle replied, standing up on legs that suddenly felt weak and rubbery as overcooked noodles. He threw his parfait away, even though he'd only taken a few bites, and headed for the door. "Well...see you in the lab."

"Hmm," the woman replied, looking up with a smile. "Yeah, you too."

Kyle stepped outside and took a moment to take a few deep breaths. Then he put his lab coat back on, trying to keep his hands from shaking.

* * *

Tweek waited until Bebe went to work before he crept out of the guest room, and it was a good thing she left when she did, because he really, _really_ needed to pee.

He sighed as he stepped out of the bathroom, wiping his clean, soap-smelling hands on his jeans. Tweek was dressed in the black hoodie and old sneakers he had put on this morning when he'd reluctantly left the house. He walked six blocks in the snow to get his coffee, which hadn't been pleasant, but he'd desperately needed his fix. Tweek had been expecting to feel miserable the entire time, but the air had been so cold and fresh and _enjoyable_ he found himself wanting to stay out a little longer. _Maybe I should stop by McDonalds. They're the epitome of a capitalist monster, but damn, do they have good french fries!_

The stares he got quickly made Tweek change his mind. He paid for his coffee and practically ran back to Bebe's house, trying not to freak out. Once he was safely back in the guest room with Butters, a fresh cup of coffee in his hands (and more on the way!) he'd felt much better, man, but he couldn't help feeling just a little bit regretful as well. Maybe...maybe _no one_ had been staring at him. Tweek got up and looked longingly out the window, cradling his borrowed mug in palms. Maybe he'd let his paranoia get to him (again), but the itchy feeling Tweek always got whenever he thought he was being watched wasn't there anymore, so who knows? _It really was nice outside, though…_

Tweek spent most of the day on his computer, watching Butters and avoiding Bebe. He heard her moving around more than once and had been terrified that she would stick her head in, but she never did. Perhaps she thought he was still asleep. Tweek knew Bebe was a kind person, beautiful both inside and out, but she had only the _barest_ tolerance for him. Bebe thought he was an annoying, paranoid, insane _creep_ who had possibly murdered his own parents and burned down their coffee shop to hide the evidence. So okay, maybe the first three things were true, but that last one _definitely_ wasn't. Bebe was polite to him, but it was a _cold_ kind of politeness. If it weren't for Kenny running interference Bebe would have tossed him out on his ass. Tweek ran his fingers through his platinum-blond hair, a sad expression on his face. It was one thing to feel the stares of anonymous nobodies, but it was quite another to have all that judgement and hostility staring you right in the face, all from a pair of pretty pale green eyes.

Ugh, whatever man.

Tweek settled down on one of Bebe's couches, snacking on an apple, his laptop balanced on one knee. He was just about to sync up some music and get back to work when Kenny suddenly walked in, a gust of freezing-cold air blowing in with him. Tweek stared at his friend, his brows raised. Kenny looked tired and _irritable_ , and there were some questionable stains on his faded overalls. He had a big bag of KFC with him, though, and Kenny smiled at Tweek as he set the chicken down on the counter, kicked off his boots and drifted over to the couch.

"Rough day getting fucked by The Man?" Tweek asked casually, taking another bite out of his apple.

"Yeah," Kenny answered grouchily.

To Tweek's surprise, Kenny dropped down on the couch _right next to him_ and rested his head on Tweek's shoulder. Tweek jerked a little, startled by the contact. It wasn't unpleasant or unwanted or anything like that, it was just...it had been _so long_ since anyone had voluntarily gotten close to him. Kenny yawned and sighed wearily, completely unaware of his partner's wide emerald eyes and disbelieving expression. After a second or two, Tweek relaxed. It was just Kenny, after all, his best and _only_ friend in the whole wide world. Tweek could feel the warmth seeping from Kenny's body all along his side. Gosh, man...it was such a _nice_ sensation.

Still, Tweek wouldn't be _Tweek_ if he didn't complain.

"Jesus, man, personal space much?" Tweek said, shifting his laptop to an arm of the couch. Kenny smelled kind of good, actually, like… "And why the hell do you smell like a cheap Folgers brand?"

Kenny snorted. "Don't ask, dude. How's Butters? He wake up yet?"

"Nah," Tweek replied. "Still asleep. Going on fourteen hours now. Kid must have been exhausted."

"Hmm," Kenny murmured thoughtfully, thinking of the bruises Butters had been covered with. "Dig up any information on him?"

"Aw jeeze, man, how did you know I would look? I wanted to surprise you with the wealth of my knowledge!"

"I _know_ you, dude. So?"

"Not much," Tweek admitted. "Leopold Alec Stotch, born September 11th to Mr. and Mrs. Stephen and Linda Stotch in Honolulu, Hawaii."

"Hawaii?" Kenny murmured, somehow amused by that. "And?"

"Nothing. Just a birth certificate. No school records, medical records...fuck, man, I can't even pin down a single permanent address. It's like someone paid to wipe this kid clean off the face of the Earth."

"Fuck," Kenny muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The _hell_ is up with this kid?"

"Beats me, man," Tweek replied, shrugging with the one shoulder that currently _didn't_ have someone's head on it. "This is some shady, _government cover-up_ shit! I guess we won't really know anything until the kid wakes up. In the meantime, man, what are _we_ gonna do?"

"I don't know," Kenny replied. Tweek could hear the tiredness in his voice. "What we always do, I guess."

"By a wing and a prayer! Caaannn dooo!" Tweek chirped cheerfully. Kenny laughed.

"Where's Bebe? Work?"

"Yep," Tweek replied, smiling ruefully. "Left to shake dat ass. Gone to make dudes make it rain. _Working the pole_ , as it were."

"I'm going to drag you to the club one day." Kenny said, grinning mischievously.

"Jesus, man." Tweek blanched. "If I drown in my own nosebleed, who's gonna watch your back?"

"Don't be a pussy."

"Ngh, _WHATEVER,_ man! What about you? Are you pulling a night shift?" Tweek asked, craning his neck around to watch Kenny's expression. Kenny looked troubled, reaching up to tug lightly on his long blond hair. Tweek knew Kenny felt a certain level of responsibility toward his alter-ego that he could _never_ understand, but Kenny was clearly exhausted, and an exhausted superhero was of no help to anyone. Even Batman took a break sometimes. Kenny sighed, shaking his head.

"No," he said softly. "It's an off night."

Tweek was relieved, but he tried not to show it. "Cool beans, man. I know you only got a couple hours of sleep," he said, glancing back at his computer, "and Bebe will be gone all night, so you have no excuse not to get some rest -"

Tweek felt Kenny shift suddenly. When he turned his head to look at his friend, Kenny _kissed_ him, hard.


	6. Chapter 6

  **4.**

"I wasn't going to stick my dick in anything. I was actually planning on letting _you_ top _me_ , dude."

**~ Kenny McCormick.**

* * *

Tweek had no idea what was happening, or why. It was as if his brain had short-circuited.

Kenny's kiss was firm but undemanding, and his lips had a warm, _plush_ feel. Tweek had only been kissed a handful of times in his life — none of them recently — and _never_ like this. The unfamiliarity of it sent an anxious shiver down his spine, but he couldn't help thinking (with a flutter of heat coiling in his belly) that it felt pretty damn good, too. Kenny kissed with purposeless purpose, slow and thorough, as if he was trying to commit the shape and sensation of his partner's trembling mouth to memory. Tweek froze under the sweet onslaught, his normally hyperactive thought processes coming to a screeching halt. His heart seemed to stop, before speeding up to a wild gallop that made him feel lightheaded. Tweek's vivid green eyes were glued open with shock, but Kenny had closed his, and the _intimacy_ of that made his confused mind flare with explainable panic.

_W-what the hell?!_

Tweek slapped his hands down on Kenny's shoulders and used the leverage that provided to tear himself away. He bumped carelessly into the laptop that he'd perched delicately on the arm of Bebe's couch and sent it crashing to the floor with a dull thud. Normally, this would have been enough to send Tweek into hysterics; aside from the framed picture of his parents, his computer was probably his most precious possession. It was a custom monster that he'd built himself, but right now, the shiny black laptop was the furthest thing from Tweek's mind. Thankfully Bebe's floors were carpeted, so the device simply snapped shut when it hit the ground, undamaged.

Kenny shifted obligingly, but even so, there wasn't nearly enough space between them for Tweek's liking. McCormick was still pressed more or less against his side, watching him with faintly amused dark blue eyes, eyes that put even sapphires to shame with their brilliance. Tweek had never noticed just how stupidly handsome Kenny was, and why _should_ he? He had never looked at his friend like that before, but he was looking now, with a combination of awe and jealousy. Some guys really did have all the luck, man. Kenny's face was dusted with freckles, like the lightest sprinkling of cinnamon powder. Those freckles were so faint they were basically unnoticeable...unless you happened to be especially close.

Like Tweek was now.

Seriously, why was Kenny still so close to him?!

"The fuck are you doing, man?!" Tweek hissed. He briefly considered adding _Get the hell away from me, I'm your friend and this is NOT COOL!_ but he just couldn't seem to muster up the outrage.

It was a new and deeply uncomfortable experience for him. Tweek had _never_ lacked for outrage. His opinions were a little out there sometimes, but his mother had taught him at an early age that if he didn't stand for _something_ he'd fall for _anything_ , and Tweek had taken that particular philosophy to heart. As far as he was concerned, there were too many uninformed, uninvolved, complacent sheep in the world. So _what_ he got a little crazy? Tweek was passionate about his ideals! How could he _not_ be outraged by society's bullshit standards, sub-par Hollywood remakes, the price of a cup of coffee, the sexism in the music industry, the fact that the government was _most definitely_ pumping nanomachines into the tap water...the list went on and on (and got weirder and weirder). He'd never understood how some people could go about their daily lives completely unaffected by this stuff.

So why wasn't he outraged now? Why wasn't he pissed off that Kenny had kissed him out of the blue like this? Anger struck Tweek as being the safest, most _appropriate_ response to the situation, but truthfully, he wasn't angry at all. He was _bewildered_ , and the feeling had shaken him down to his core. Tweek didn't like it one bit, and he liked the ball of heat condensing in his stomach even less, because there was no reason why it should be there...not for _Kenny_ , of all people.

"Jesus, man, are you so fucking _horny_ you'll go after anyone?!" Tweek demanded, narrowing his eyes at Kenny. "Ngh, if this is your idea of a fucking joke, I'm NOT laughing!"

"Calm down, Tweek." Kenny replied softly. "It was just a kiss, nothing to get upset over. See?"

Kenny gently lifted one of Tweek's hands and kissed his knuckles, as if he was a fair and dainty lady. It was so ridiculous Tweek might have laughed, if it hadn't been for Kenny's utterly serious expression. Once again Tweek's brain flared with panic, the kind that left you paralyzed and helpless. Kenny turned his hand over and kissed his palm, which was smooth and shiny with old scar tissue. He nipped at Tweek's long, graceful fingers, but Tweek snatched his hand away before Kenny could do something gross (ngh, right, _gross_ , totally gross, not a turn-on _at all_ ) like suck one of them into the moist cavern of his mouth.

"I _know_ what the fuck a kiss is, _rgh_ , that doesn't answer my fucking question!" Tweek snapped, his voice high and jittery. "Why the fuck did you kiss me in the _first_ place?! WHY, man?!"

Kenny uttered a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "Because you needed a kiss," he replied, as if that explained everything. Who knows, maybe to him it did, but Tweek was more confused than ever.

" _W-what_?" Tweek squeaked, his left eye twitching.

Kenny exhaled and slowly shook his head. "Look," he said, his voice low and soothing, "something you said has been bothering me. I was going to let it go, but I can't."

"Oh _Jesus_." Tweek muttered, glancing away. "The hell did I say? Please tell me, man, so I can avoid this stupid bullshit in the future."

"You said nobody would ever want you." Kenny pointedly replied, ignoring Tweek's irate tone. Tweek flinched a little, shuddering all over, before whirling around to give Kenny a cold, hard stare, his brows furrowed over his dark green eyes.

"So. Fucking. _What_?" Tweek said, breaking off each word like sections of the most hostile candy bar ever. "Nghh! You're _really_ gonna bring this up? It's _true_ , man! Case closed! There's nothing else left to discuss!"

"No, it isn't." Kenny replied simply. "That's just an excuse, dude."

Tweek laughed wildly. "Oh, well _excuse me_. I must have just imagined all those looks of revulsion growing up, then. Gnahahahaa! You know what man? You should _really_ just stick to looking pretty, because smart isn't working out for you."

Kenny's expression contorted with annoyance, but before Tweek could savor the fact that he'd finally gotten under the jerk's skin, he was flipped on his back.

Tweek blinked rapidly, startled by the sudden change in orientation. Kenny was looming above him, pinning him him to the couch with his hands wrapped around Tweek's wrists and his knees on either side of his skinny legs. Kenny's grip was light and loose, and Tweek realized that that was probably on purpose. His partner wasn't trying to hold him down, he was just trying to get him to _listen_ , and Tweek could have broken free at any time. As upset as he was right now, Tweek couldn't help feeling absurdly grateful that Kenny had _remembered_. After the fire that had destroyed Tweek Bros. Coffeehouse forever, even the _slightest_ feeling of being trapped with no obvious means of escape was enough to make Tweek burst into uncontrollable tears.

Kenny still looked extremely annoyed, though. So much for getting off easy.

"Tweek, will you cut your woe-is-me bullshit already?" Kenny snarled, glaring down at the twitchy blond. "It's a fucking excuse and you _know_ it! Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?"

Tweek snorted derisively. " _Nnghhh_! If you tell me I'm cute or some _ridiculous_ shit like that, I _swear to God_ , man! I will knee you in the fucking _dick_!"

"You're cute, dude." Kenny replied flatly, without hesitation. He raised a brow expectantly, waiting for Tweek to make good on his threats, but Tweek just bit his lip and looked sullenly off to one side. Bluff called and checked. Tweek had forgotten just how much of a challenging asshole Kenny could be.

"Listen to me, dude," Kenny said, reverting back to his earlier soothing tone, "you think nobody would ever want you, but that's just fucking stupid, okay? It's a lie you tell yourself so you don't have to deal with the fact that what you _really_ think —"

"Oh yeah man, _do_ enlighten me!" Tweek cut in harshly, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"— what you really think," Kenny continued, his voice deepening nearly to Mysterion-levels, "is that you don't _deserve_ someone who wants you."

Tweek stiffened.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Kenny asked, even though they both knew the answer to that question. "Tweek, for such a _smart_ guy, you can be a real idiot sometimes. What happened to your parents wasn't your fault, dude."

Tweek began to tremble, his breathing becoming ragged. "Y-you don't know what you're talking about, man."

"I kinda do, Tweek." Kenny replied gently. He leaned forward, hovering over Tweek's face, his long, hay-colored hair draping over his shoulders like a fall of soft water. "It wasn't your fault. You don't have to keep doing this to yourself, dude. You can stop with all the self-loathing."

" _Fuck_ you, man!" Tweek exploded, surging up against his partner with his eyes flashing dangerously. "You're one to fucking talk! ' _Stop with all the self-loathing_ ', REALLY?! You're a goddamn _hypocrite_ , Kenny!"

Kenny narrowed his eyes. The dark blue depths of them suddenly became cold and stormy, like an ocean rocked by a typhoon. Tweek simply stared the unmasked superhero down, refusing to be intimidated. For a moment their gazes traded sparks and the air crackled with tension, before Kenny slowly exhaled, visibly relaxing.

"I'm _not_ a hypocrite," Kenny said, his voice so low and growly he might as well have been playing his alter-ego, "because I deserve to be blamed for what I did. You don't. _That's_ the difference."

Kenny's tone dared Tweek to argue with him. He didn't, only because he had no idea what to say. Tweek seemed to melt into the couch, his expression awash in misery. He honestly didn't know who he felt more sorry for — himself or Kenny. They were both so _broken_. Maybe that's why they'd become such good friends.

"Ken, I don't…" Tweek began weakly, but Kenny shushed him with another kiss.

Kenny moved slowly, _carefully_ , and when Tweek didn't immediately flip out he slipped in a little deeper, nibbling on Tweek's bottom lip. Tweek tensed, but the outrage he'd expected to feel was still nowhere to be found, and for once Tweek didn't go looking for it. When Kenny expertly ran his tongue along Tweek's bottom lip, all resistance left him.

Tweek uttered an embarrassingly needy whimper and kissed his friend back, shamelessly parting his lips to allow Kenny's probing tongue access. Kenny hummed approvingly, licking the roof of Tweek's mouth, as if his friend was a sweet delicacy. Kenny released his wrists to cup his face and pull him closer as Tweek wrapped his arms around his neck. Deep down, Tweek realized he was only reacting this way because all the years of self-imposed isolation had left him _starved_ for human contact. Tweek was a weird, paranoid, jittery counter-culturalist _nerd_ , but he'd always been perfectly normal physically. Just another 24-year-old male with slightly above-average 24-year-old male urges. Considering all his other problems, being normal in _that one area_ actually kind of sucked.

Sheesh, why couldn't he have been born with no sex drive at all?! Then he could focus on his work without pesky things like his dick getting in the way.

Which, coincidentally, was currently _getting in the way_. Ngggghhhh.

Determined to get a hold of himself, Tweek quickly untangled his arms from around Kenny's neck and gave his friend's chest a hard shove. Kenny detached himself with a surprised expression, watching as Tweek struggled back into a sitting position, feeling flushed and wobbly. Tweek didn't need a mirror to know that his face was all red, and he couldn't seem to stop his hands from shaking.

"S-stop it, man." Tweek said, trying to sound firm and succeeding only in sounding small and petulant, like a child who had been ripped away from something he'd been enjoying. _Gah, fuck everything, man!_ "You got your kiss or whatever the fuck you were trying to do. You can fuck off, now."

"Jesus _Christ_ , dude. Do I _really_ have to spell this out for you?" Kenny said, raking a hand back through his long blond hair in exasperation. " _Look_ , we're both tired, wound-up and irritable. We could both use a little comfort right now. And _you_ -" Kenny jabbed an accusatory finger at Tweek, " — have desperately needed some stress-relief for a _long_ fucking time. So why not help each other out?"

Tweek stared at his friend. His mouth was slack, his eyes were wide, his shoulders were twitching and his mind was scrambling to process what Kenny was suggesting. "W-WHAT?! A-are you _seriously_ —"

Before Tweek could finish that sentence Kenny climbed into his lap, lean and graceful as a panther. One hand went straight for Tweek's groin, cupping him through his jeans, and the other threaded in his wild platinum-blond hair. Kenny didn't kiss him this time, but considering where his hands were, that was hardly a consolation. Tweek groaned as Kenny leaned in super-close, his dark blue eyes smoky and half-lidded, nuzzling his face while Tweek shivered and tried to remember how to get his brain to work.

"Let me do something nice for you." Kenny murmured, giving Tweek a squeeze that wrenched another needy whimper from his throat. His voice was low and playful, _seductive_. Tweek couldn't believe this was happening to him. The pressure was closing in all around, only he couldn't decide whether or not he wanted to escape it.

"Haghn...oh, _Jesus_." Tweek hissed, as Kenny began suckling the side of his neck. "Kenny. _Kenneth_. N-no way, man! If you want to do something nice for me, buy me a pound of coffee! Start listening to NPR o-or...nghh —" Kenny suckled a little harder, " — read _The Jungle_ by Upton Sinclair! _Any_ of those things would make me happy, man! I don't...ngh, we _can't_ …"

 _Stop trying to deny it,_ a cold, mean voice whispered somewhere deep inside. _You know you want this. So what if it's your best friend? If not Kenny, then who? Who else has the patience to put up with your issues, let alone TOUCH you, you freak?_

Tweek shivered. He _hated_ that voice. It was the voice of self-doubt and shitty feelings.

"C'mon, dude," Kenny said, his warm breath puffing over the moist spot he'd made on the side of Tweek's neck, "don't tell me you only like girls…"

"Hng, I only like girls!" Tweek lied, in the vain hopes that Kenny would buy it. "I'm totally, one-hundred percent _straight_ , man! I'm all about the vaginas! SERIOUSLY, man!"

"Pft, yeah right. You're a horrible liar, Tweek." Kenny chuckled, and his voice suddenly changed, becoming higher and full of nervous energy. It took Tweek a second to realize that Kenny was doing a _spot-on_ impression of him, "Ngh, I roll with whatever. Free love, man!"

Tweek scowled. "You know, when a friend wants to do something _nice_ for a friend, they bake them a goddamn _cake_ , man! They don't go trying to stick their _DICK_ in them!"

Kenny chuckled again. "I wasn't going to stick my dick in anything. I was actually planning on letting _you_ top _me_ , dude."

Tweek flinched as if he'd been slapped.

"It'll be easier that way," Kenny continued thoughtfully, oblivious to Tweek's extreme shock, "the first time can hurt like a _bitch_ , but if you top we won't have to worry about all that. So, how 'bout it? Aren't you getting tired of being the 24-year old virgin?"

Tweek was speechless, and his heart was pounding so fast he thought it was going to leap out of his thorax, like the chestburster from _Alien_. Kenny studied his anxious, bug-eyed expression for a second or two, before he laughed softly and kissed Tweek's cheek, running his hands up and down the soft black material of his hoodie.

"Did I fry your brain, dude?" Kenny asked, grinning. "Earth to Tweek…"

"There's nothing wrong with being a virgin," Tweek snapped faintly, his overwrought mind latching onto the only thing that he'd been able to safely take away from Kenny's spiel. The rest of that stuff was simply too much for him to handle.

"No," Kenny agreed amiably, "if that's what you want. But that isn't really what you want, is it?"

"GAAH! I don't need your goddamn _pity-fuck_!" Tweek shouted, tired, confused and at his wits' end, every nerve seconds away from going haywire.

"If I pitied you, I wouldn't fuck you, dude." Kenny replied levelly. "I want to do this because I _like_ you. Fucking _spaz_."

"We can't we can't we can't we can't we _can't_!" Tweek cried, yanking at his hair, even as part of him was wondering why he was so against this. It wasn't as if the thought didn't intrigue him a little, because it did. "OH GOD, me on top of you... _inside_ of you...JESUS CHRIST, it would be too weird, man!"

"It won't," Kenny said, his voice full of quiet confidence. He reached forward to take Tweek's shaking hands in his own, applying gentle pressure. "Dude, _relax_! We're both adults. Buddies for life, remember? You're my Robin, I'm your Batman."

"Gah, I never agreed to that!" Tweek hissed, on the verge of hysterics. "Robin _sucks_ , I told you man! I'm fucking _Oracle_!"

"Oracle, then." Kenny allowed, smiling, but when Tweek shivered again he added softly, "Tweek. We'll both get off, we'll both feel better and _nothing_ will change. It won't be weird, I promise."

"IT WILL!" Tweek practically shrieked, rocking back and forth, completely freaked out. "It'll be _so weird,_ man! GAH, I CAN'T TAKE THIS! You're my friend, you should _understand_! I _don't_ deserve this! I _don't_! I DON'T DESERVE ANYONE! NGH, my parents fucking died because of _me_!"

"Tweek —" Kenny began, alarmed, but it was as if someone had knocked a hole in a poorly-built dam, and all the headwaters were exploding outward. Tweek couldn't stop himself if he tried, and _God_ , how he'd tried.

" _RAH_! SHUT UP, JUST STOP TALKING MAN!" Tweek snarled, whirling furiously on Kenny. _Jesus, I have to stop. Please stop. I haven't had a panic attack in EIGHT MONTHS, that's a record for me! Please calm down, please, please, please. Not_ now _._

He couldn't.

When Tweek was younger, maybe 9 or 10 years old, he was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. He never found out how bad it was, but it must have been pretty bad, because his doctor put him on medication for it.

It was supposed to help level him out, but the meds, coupled with his natural hyperactivity, only made things worse. His muscle spasms increased, his ticks became nigh-impossible to control and he would blurt things out randomly, always the craziest shit — whenever the meds hadn't left him so anxious and drowsy he couldn't function, that is. It got so bad Tweek's mother eventually took him off the medication, and made a show of flushing the pills down the toilet after Richard insisted they "just needed a little more time to work". Tweek had always been his mother's baby, but he'd never loved her as much as he did right then, watching those stupid green capsules go right down the crapper.

Mrs. Tweek was a peace-sign flashing, tree-hugging flower child in her day, and she'd strongly believed in the power of alternative medicine. _She_ was the one who got Tweek started with all the deep-breathing exercises, meditation and positive visualization techniques. Tweek knew he'd never completely be free of his anxiety, but with his mother's help he'd learned to _cope_ with it. She helped him more than those stupid pills and that stupid fucking doctor ever did. Tweek missed both of his parents, but sometimes, in the darkest moments of his depression, he wished he could have at least saved his Mom.

Despite everything his mother had taught him, though, there were times when he just couldn't get it together, when his panic attacks were so _awful_ he felt like he was floating above his own body like a balloon on a tattered string, watching himself disintegrate into an anxious wreck. _Depersonalization_. Tweek had read about it, once.

Kenny had gone very still, watching Tweek with wide, concerned dark blue eyes. Tweek just couldn't stop.

"You don't give a shit about me, _nobody_ gives a shit about me! I'm a FREAK and we _both_ fucking know it, so you can shove your false fucking sympathy up your goddamn ass, man! Don't pretend like you care!" Tweek inhaled shakily, his lungs burning.

Kenny hissed sharply, shaking his head. "Fucking hell, Tweek. I _do_ care! How can you —"

"If you want to _fuck_ someone, go fuck _Bebe_ or _Wendy_ or...or WHOEVER, man! That's all you really want, isn't it?!"

" _No_! Jesus Christ, dude! I —"

"All that stuff about comfort and stress-relief was all just bullshit, wasn't it? _Wasn't_ it?!"

"Tweek, _listen_ to me —!"

"Arg, no YOU listen! Don't act like you don't _pity_ me, _ngh_ …" A sob caught in Tweek's throat, then another. "Don't act like you don't think I'm just another fucked-up charity case! Jesus! If you want me to leave, I'll LEAVE, man!"

"What the hell are you _talking_ about?" Kenny demanded, staring at Tweek as if he'd gone insane. It was the same look he'd been getting ever since he was a kid, and it _hurt_. Until now, Kenny had never looked at him like that. Tweek couldn't blame him, though. Not even _he_ knew what he was babbling about anymore.

"Tweek. All that shit you just said right now? It's _not_ true, dude. Not even a little!" Kenny said, sounding understandably angry. "Look, I...this isn't what I wanted. I just thought it'd be fun. I _never_ meant to upset you like this, so just forget it, dude. _Okay_?"

Tweek was shaking and his eyes were burning, and suddenly the weight of his panicked, irrational tirade hit him like a ton of bricks. He curled up into a ball and began to cry, each sob setting his raw throat muscles on fire. _I did it again. I completely lost it. So stupid…_

"Dude…" Tweek heard Kenny drop down beside him. He could almost imagine the expression of pain and worry on his friend's face, but he refused to look up from the bend of his arm. _Just let me cry. Please, Ken._

"Tweek. I'm _sorry_. I'm so sorry," he heard Kenny say, his normally playful voice full of regret. "I wasn't trying to...ah, shit. I'm _so_ fucking sorry. I never should have brought it up. I wasn't trying to force you...and I shouldn't have tried to convince you."

_It's not your fault, man. In your own pervy way, I know you were just trying to help me feel better. It's not like I wasn't interested. For fuck's sake, I let you stick your tongue down my throat, didn't I?! I liked it, I just...couldn't handle the anxiety. Big fucking surprise._

"Please dude, don't be mad at me."

_I'm not mad, man. It's not your fault I'm so fucked up I can't even handle a simple proposition without having a panic attack and then crying about it. *You're* the adult here, man, not me._

"I promise, I'll never mention it again, dude."

_Oh, Jesus. I just ruined my one and only chance to get laid. Oh well, man. I wouldn't have been able to handle it, even if I'd had the balls to say yes. I want love but I don't think I'm worthy of it. I want someone to touch me, but I'm paranoid about my scars. And yeah, maybe I'm a little worried, too. Sometimes I really don't know how you put up with me. If we did this and things changed between us, it would be MY fault, not yours. All because I was selfish, man._

Tweek swallowed and tried to speak. No words would come. It was pathetically typical, and made him want to cry even harder.

Kenny sighed, ran his hands through his hair, and climbed slowly to his feet. "I...I mean it, Tweek. What happened to your parents wasn't your fault."

_Maybe, maybe not. They're still dead, though. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, man. You of all people should know this. For the record, what happened to Karen wasn't your fault, either, but I know you'll never accept it._

Kenny sighed again. Tweek finally raised his head, his face streaked with tears. He wanted to say something, wanted to assure Kenny that he was alright, that _they'd_ be alright, but Tweek was terrified of what would happen if he opened his mouth again, so he just stayed silent. Tweek watched apathetically as Kenny smiled at him, his eyes sad, before he disappeared upstairs. He thought perhaps Kenny might have gone to lay down and breathed a shaky sigh of relief, but a moment later Kenny was tromping back down the stairs. His friend had changed out of his work clothes and was wearing his orange parka, car keys in his hand. Tweek sat up a little, alarmed, as Kenny shot him another sad smile and headed for the door.

"H-hey...where are you going?" Tweek squeaked, his tongue finally becoming unglued.

"Out," Kenny answered ambiguously, raising a brow at him, one hand already on the doorknob. "I'll be back."

"B-but…" Tweek swallowed again, his chin wobbling, "It's snowing outside...I thought you said you were tired…"

"I won't be gone long," Kenny replied, but somehow Tweek knew that was a lie. Kenny opened the door, flipping the fur-lined hood of his parka up over his head as he did so. "Eat something, dude, and keep an eye on Buttercup for me. Okay?"

Tweek bit his lip and nodded, but Kenny was already gone, closing the door firmly behind him. The silence he left was _deafening_. Tweek sucked in a lungful of air and got off the couch to — to do what, exactly? He realized he had no idea. Tweek was lost, and couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just run his friend off with his craziness.

He spotted his laptop lying on the floor and bent to pick it up. Tweek cradled the device to his chest and sank into the couch cushions, but when he flipped it open he couldn't seem to remember what he'd been doing. A plain white webpage stared up at him and he stared right back, his expression blank and his green eyes dull. Tweek felt angry and forlorn, disgusted with himself, but mostly he just felt _lonely._ Somehow, that was the worst feeling of them all.

"Fuck me," Tweek whispered, hiccuping, before he lay down and pulled his knees up to his chest.

* * *

Skeeter's Bar and Cocktails was a dirty, redneck juke-joint where the roaches were plentiful and the rats were almost as big as the waitresses, but Kenny liked it because the drinks were cheap and Skeeter asked no questions.

Kenny toyed with a shot of tequila, moodily studying the clear liquor. Then he picked up the glass and tossed the contents down his throat, ignoring the bartender's curious look. It tasted like _shit_ and burned cold-hot, igniting a fire in the pit of his stomach. Kenny grimaced, wishing he had a wedge of lime to chase it down, but according to Skeeter "only girls and faggots" needed chasers for their drinks. It didn't matter. Soon enough, he wouldn't care about the taste.

Kenny sighed and ordered another, a grim expression on his face. Alcohol had never really been Kenny's thing, not like it was with Stuart and Kevin. They could drink entire _bottles_ of tequila like they were jugs of water, but Kenny had never liked the feeling of being drunk. As far as he was concerned, when it came to mindless, destructive escapism, drugs were the way to go. Getting high was faster than drinking, and the effects were often immediate and euphoric. Kenny had mostly kicked his drug habit years ago — more as a form of punishment than from any real desire to quit — but he really could have used a needle-full of heroin right now, which had always been his drug of choice.

Kenny ran his hands up and down his toned arms, feeling wistful. The skin there was smooth and unblemished now, but he could see all his old tracks in his mind's eye, like dear friends. At first, Kenny had gotten high to escape the trauma of his deaths, but after a while he got high simply because he _liked_ it. Nothing numbed his pain and helped him forget like the drugs. When he was using he was almost _happy_. It was an escape more pleasurable than even sex.

Kenny continued to run his hands up and down his arms, before he stopped himself with a frown. _No. I'm not doing that shit,_ he told himself sternly, picking up his second shot of tequila. _Not now._ Maybe later, after he'd settled his current situation, he could take off for a few days...but not _now._ There was too much at stake, too many people who depended on him. Kenny snorted, ordering another shot. The irony of his situation wasn't lost on him. He had dedicated his life to helping people, to _saving_ people, and he couldn't even fucking save himself.

Unconsciously, Kenny rubbed his arms again.

God, he hoped Tweek was okay. Kenny smiled ruefully, shaking his head. If he'd known the guy was going to react so badly, he never would have propositioned him. Damn, and it had seemed like such a good idea at the time, too.

Admittedly, he'd fantasized about having sex with Tweek for _years_. Tweek would have been _horrified_ to learn how many times Kenny had thought about fucking him, but Tweek was so much more attractive than he'd ever given himself credit for. Kenny sipped his fourth shot of tequila contemplatively, a melancholy smile playing around his lips. Tweek had tasted like coffee and nutmeg, like the weed he was always smoking because he claimed it helped his nerves, like something faintly peppery and undeniably _Tweek Tweak_.

His friends had always laughed and called him an addict, but Kenny didn't exactly see it that way. He was all about sex — the taste, the sounds, the smell, how it felt, hard or soft, fast or slow, day or night... _seriously_ , sex was _amazing_ , sex was _exciting,_ he could jerk off all day and never be completely satisfied, he loved making people _moan,_ he loved it when someone made _him_ moan, made him _scream_ even, and it was ridiculously easy to turn him on — but c'mon, that didn't make him an _addict_!

Well, okay. So maybe it did.

Addict or no, Kenny actually liked making people feel good. He liked it even better when he could make his _friends_ feel good, and Tweek desperately needed some pleasure in his life. All he'd really wanted was to show Tweek that _yes_ , he deserved pleasure, and _no_ , he wasn't a freak.

Kenny sighed. Considering how badly Tweek had freaked out, he had failed royally in that endeavor. _Maybe it's for the best…_

After all, who was he to tell Tweek he shouldn't blame himself for what happened to his parents? Wasn't he still blaming himself for Karen? For _everything_?

/' _Stop with all the self-loathing_ ', REALLY?! You're a goddamn _hypocrite_ , Kenny!/

 _Yeah,_ Kenny thought, rubbing his arms. _Maybe I am a hypocrite, but facts are facts. Karen was hurt because of ME. Her world was changed forever, and it's all MY fault._

Once again, Kenny felt a rush of crippling disgust, a feeling that would _never_ go away, no matter what he did.

Kenny ordered another shot. For once, he wanted to get blind, stinking drunk. It wasn't the high he was used to, but it was the next best thing, and right now he would take what he could get. As the alcohol finally began hitting his system, turning everything soft and fuzzy around the edges, Kenny pulled out his phone and played with dialing Karen's number, never quite mustering up the courage.

* * *

"Red. Are you sure about this?" Craig demanded, frowning up at the plain, four-story brick building that was the current headquarters of the South Park Gazette. It had begun to snow again, and _hard_ , but Craig paid no attention to the cold, or the snowflakes melting in his straight jet-black hair. Red shifted beside him, planting her hands on her slender hips, her beautiful features twisted in an expression of annoyance.

"How many times are you going to ask me that, _honey_?" Red asked, with a nasty edge in her otherwise sweet tone.

"As many times as I feel is necessary," Craig deadpanned, completely unfazed by Red's irritation. "I need to be sure you know what you're doing. This plan of yours seems awfully...excessive."

"Hmph," Red rolled her eyes, flicking a lock of her thick auburn hair over her shoulder. "Are you scared, or jealous because you didn't think of it first, sweetie?"

Craig didn't bother dignifying that idiotic remark with a response.

"Look, I _know_ what I'm doing..." Red said, sidling up to Craig with a coy smile. She ran a hand clad in a fingerless glove lightly down Craig's arm, feeling the muscles under the smooth material of his dark suit.

"So _tense_!" Red chided, laughing softly. "Maybe after all this is over, you and I could go have a drink. What do you say, sexy?"

Craig ignored her, snatching his arm away. He began walking calmly up to the building, removing his Desert Eagle from a side holster as he did so. Red watched him go with another coy smile, and then turned to gesture to the two big vans parked behind her. Immediately, a dozen nondescript men carrying sub-machine guns poured out. They were dressed in black gear, and completely indistinguishable save for the logo of Doctor Mephesto's Genetic Engineering Ranch sewn on their arm guards.

"Alright, boys. You know what to do." Red said in a bored tone, following casually after Craig with her hips swaying.

Mephesto's hired muscle fell into a tactical formation behind her.

And, inside the building, Cartman, Wendy and Gary prepped for the evening broadcast, completely oblivious to the danger rapidly closing in.

* * *

_/What's your name?/_

_/What?/_

_/U-um, I said, what's your name?/_

_/...Fuck off./_

_/Aww, gee, don't be like that! We might be here for a while, ya know! M-my name's Leopold. You can call me Butters!/_

_/...Whatever.../_

_/So? A-are ya gonna tell me your name?/_

_/Names are for conformists. You can call me whatever you want, I really don't give a fuck./_

_/O-oh.../_

_/ Are you here to help me?/_

_/W-well, I'm gonna try my gosh-darned best! I jus' bet I can help ya!/_

_/Don't make promises you can't keep./_

_/I-I.../_

_/Whatever./_

_/U-um, I can get started now, if you.../_

_/Fine. Hey./_

_/Y-yeah?/_

_**/Will you tell me if I'm going to die?/** _

_**/Aww, gee! You're not gonna die, fella. I promise./** _

Butters swam up out a sleep so deep it was like being buried alive. He wasn't sure if he'd dreamed or not, but all his dreams had become nightmares anyway, so Butters was _glad_ he couldn't remember. His senses returned to him slowly, and when he finally opened his eyes, Butters found himself gazing up at the ceiling of a small room in an unfamiliar house.

The room was dark. That darkness frightened him a little, but when Butters turned his head to look around, he realized he had nothing to be scared of. He was lying on an actual _bed_ for the first time in over a year. The blankets draped over him were warm and soft, sensations Butters never thought he'd feel again. A fat orange tabby was perched on his chest, purring happily, and Butters lifted a trembling hand to pet the animal with tears of gratitude gathering in his expressive aquamarine eyes. He was safe and _alive_. Butters had no idea what the future would hold, but this was already more than he'd dared to hope for in a very, _very_ long time.

Tears slipped down his cheeks, hot and fast. Butters made no attempt to hold them back. He sobbed to himself in that quiet, comfortable room for God knows how long, tears of grief, tears of regret, tears of pain, but mostly just tears of pure happiness. _Wherever you are, Kyle...thank you._ When he was done, Butters felt like himself again, only stronger than he'd ever been.

With a final sniffle, Butters sat up, dislodging the purring cat with a faint yowl of displeasure.

 _Where I am I?_ His head felt incredibly fuzzy, but Butters suspected that that was because he'd been asleep for a while.

Butters kicked off the blankets and climbed out of bed, surprised to find that someone had removed his filthy jeans and torn flannel shirt and dressed him in a matching set of pajamas at least two sizes too big for him. The pajamas were lime-green, and stamped all over with the grinning (snarling?) faces of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Butters chuckled , and then headed over to the window, feeling stiff but refreshed. He pulled back the decorative curtains and peeked cautiously outside, blinking in amazement at the winter wonderland he found. It was awfully dark...exactly how long had he been asleep?

Butters thought hard, trying to remember how he'd gotten here. _Gee, I was rescued by a superhero!_ Suddenly it all came rushing back to him — the dirty alley, Mysterion, Tweek, the shootout in the abandoned theater, Craig, their high-speed chase, the agony as his tracking device was finally removed, and Mysterion's handsome, unmasked face smiling down at him just before he slipped into unconsciousness. _Mysterion said we were all headed to Bebe's house...this must be her place,_ Butters thought, looking around some more. _Am I alone?_

Only one way to find out.

Butters found his jeans crumpled up in a corner, and put them back on so he wouldn't have to worry about the oversized pajama bottoms falling around his ankles. He found his shirt as well, but it was stiff with dried blood and reeked of sweat, so Butters left it on the floor and rolled the long sleeves of the pajama top up to his elbows. The orange tabby was rubbing its head against Butters's legs, purring loudly. Butters scooped the animal up with a smile, cradling the big cat gently in his arms.

"R-ready, kitty?" Butters whispered, nudging the bedroom door open with a bare foot. Someone had left it slightly ajar. The feline just looked at him, its big yellow eyes glowing faintly in the gloom.

Butters eased out into the hallway and crept along until he reached the living room. He hesitated at the entrance, fidgeting nervously. From where he stood, he could see the tall, skinny young man who'd introduced himself as _Tweek_ curled up on a couch. The TV was on and his gaze was fixed on it, but Tweek's big green eyes were listless and unfocused. Butters didn't think he was watching anything at all, just staring blankly into space. He bit his lip, fighting against the urge to go slinking back to the bedroom. _No. No more being a coward, Butters. That part of you is over._

Squaring his shoulders, Butters patiently waited for Tweek to notice him. When he didn't, Butters loudly cleared his throat.

"U-um...excuse me. Hello?"

Tweek jumped as if someone had lit a firecracker in the room, springing off the couch with surprising speed. Butters winced. The cat in his arms wriggled free and dropped gracefully to the floor, dashing across the living room with the bell on its collar chiming merrily. Tweek glanced sharply in his direction, all his previous listlessness gone, and froze when their eyes met, his mouth parting in a 'O' of surprise.

"Jesus. You're _awake_!" Tweek said, as if he couldn't quite believe it.

Butters blushed, knocking his knuckles together. "Y-yeah...um…" _I don't know what to say..._

"Holy shit..." Tweek breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. For a moment Tweek just stared at him, his green eyes wide, while Butters fidgeted miserably in place, at a complete loss for words. Then Tweek smiled. Somehow, that made Butters feel a lot more at ease. Tweek had one of those nice, beaming smiles that _really_ brightened his whole face.

" _Jesus_ , man!" Tweek said, with a sudden burst of cheerful laughter. "Welcome back to the land of the fucking living!"

Butters blushed again, but he couldn't help grinning at that. "Thanks. It feels ruh-real good to be back."

"I bet!" Tweek replied, grinning fiercely. "How do you feel, kiddo?"

"Aw..." Butters shyly shuffled his feet, shrugging. "I-I feel pretty good, I guess."

"Good!" Tweek rubbed his hands together, nodding emphatically. Butters wasn't the only one who didn't know what to say. "Ah...that's good, man!"

Butters smiled and slipped a little further into the living room. Tweek was watching him with avid interest, his eyes large and friendly and somehow familiar. The last time Butters had seen him, he'd been half-naked and wielding a 9mm like a pro. Now, Tweek was dressed in a black hoodie and a pair of old jeans, the wild strands of his platinum-blond hair smoothed down by the couch cushions.

 _Now I know why his eyes seemed so familiar,_ Butters mused as he drifted closer. Kyle Broflovski had pretty green eyes like that. Tweek's eyes were dark and mossy, though, like a forest at dusk, while Kyle's were luminous as emeralds. Both men had a look of kindness. Butters found it difficult — if not impossible — to trust people like he used to...but somehow he _knew_ he could trust Tweek, just like he'd trusted Kyle once.

A full-length mirror sitting in a corner of the room quickly caught Butters's eye. Without really knowing why, Butters walked over and stared at himself for a long time, his gaze unflinching, trying to remember when he'd last owned a mirror, let alone seen his reflection. Gosh, it felt like _ages_ ago.

 _I look...older,_ Butters thought, dazed. Though not by _much_ , to be honest. His face would always possess a youthful boyishness, but Butters had definitely aged a bit. His features were sharper and his hair was a little longer and he'd even grown some, too. Butters reached out and ran his fingertips along the smooth surface of the glass, completely forgetting that Tweek was even there. _My eyes look different._ All of his cheerful naivety was gone, replaced by something that was wiser and sadder. In the lab, Butters had often felt as if time were standing still. Apparently not.

Butters swallowed. He wasn't sure how he felt, if he felt anything at all.

Meanwhile, Tweek was watching Butters closely, trying very hard not to freak out again.

 _He's awake! Oh man, oh Jesus, what do I do?!_ Tweek had promised to keep an eye on the kid, but he hadn't actually expected Butters to come around while Kenny wasn't there. Damn it all, it was just his luck! Normally Tweek could have handled it — he didn't look it, but Tweek was surprisingly good at reassuring people, probably because he often needed to be reassured himself — but after this evening's epic meltdown Tweek was feeling exhausted and deeply unsure of himself. Butters was gazing at his reflection in Bebe's grandmother's antique mirror with a deeply contemplative expression. The kid looked as if he wasn't quite sure how to handle what he was seeing, and Tweek didn't know either. He was honestly having difficulty breathing right now.

Tweek was so busy fretting, he didn't notice that Butters had turned away from the mirror with a sigh. When he looked up, the kid was studying him with genuine concern in his lovely aquamarine eyes.

"U-um, are you okay?" Butters asked.

"Eh?" Tweek said, rather intelligently considering how fried his brain was.

"You jus'...well, you looked real worried there, is all," Butters clarified, nervously knocking his knuckles together. "Is everythin' alright?"

"Oh! Uhhh..." Tweek shrugged, impressed that Butters had been able to pick up on his emotional state so quickly. "Yeah, it's all good, kid! Don't mind me, man. I'm cool as a fucking cucumber!"

Butters giggled and smiled again. Tweek suddenly saw why Kenny had been so stupidly drawn to the boy that he'd taken him back to their _former_ secret base, against all common sense. Butters had been awfully cute before, even while frightened and hurt, but now that his bruises were gone ( _Whoa, his bruises are gone!_ Tweek realized, amazed) the kid was downright _pretty_. He had a shy, sweet demeanor and spoke with a soft Southern drawl that was occasionally broken up by a slight stutter. Tweek was no expert on Southern accents, so he had no idea where Butters might have acquired his, but it was adorable. Just like the rest of him, really. Butters's large aquamarine eyes really _were_ amazing, framed by long eyelashes, just like a girl. _Jeez, Ken. Your Buttercup is awake, and you aren't even here to appreciate it!_

It was a good thing Butters was nineteen, Tweek decided. He didn't think Kenny would ever hit on someone underage — at least he _hoped_ not — but he had a feeling this kid would have sorely tested him. _Not that Kenny should be hitting on Butters at all, underage or no._

"How long have I been asleep?" Butters asked.

Tweek checked his watch. "Hmm...sixteen hours, give or take?"

"Sixteen hours?!" Butter squeaked. "Aw hamburgers, _really_?!"

"Yep," Tweek replied, smiling a little. "Hey, at least you're well-rested, man!"

"Yeah…" Butters said, looking vaguely unhappy. "I jus'...well, I didn't think I'd be out for so long, is all."

Tweek cocked his head. "Are you all healed up, kiddo?"

"Uh-huh." Butters nodded, biting his lip self-consciously. "Um...'m all healed." He mumbled.

 _How?_ Tweek wanted to ask. _How are you able to do that? Who ARE you?_ Butters looked so terribly uncomfortable Tweek knew the subject wasn't a pleasant one for him. The sadness in his eyes was unmistakable. _Okay...change of topic, then._

"So!" Tweek said, bounding off the couch. "Are you hungry, kiddo?" Butters brightened instantly, with an enthusiastic nod.

" _Really_ hungry," he admitted, shuffling his feet. "I could p-probably eat a horse right now."

"I heard the grocery store down on Main is having a two-for-one special on horse meat," Tweek replied, grinning. When Butters just stared at him, wide-eyed and silent, he added, "Err, that was a _joke_ , kid. We got KFC! Okay?"

Butters nodded again, looking relieved. Tweek hadn't touched the bucket that Kenny had brought in — he hadn't exactly been hungry after his panic attack — and the chicken had long since gone cold. Tweek warmed up the entire bucket and fixed Butters a heaping plate. Realizing that he could probably do with a little food himself, Tweek grabbed a drumstick and joined Butters at Bebe's kitchen table, munching contentedly. Butters hesitated for a second before digging in, his first few bites so slow and careful Tweek wondered if was something wrong.

"Errr...you okay, kiddo?" Tweek asked, on his second drumstick. Butters hadn't even bitten into his chicken yet.

Butters glanced up, blushing. "Oh, um...yeah. I was kept on a pretty strict diet in the lab. No fats or sugars o-or nothin' like that. I jus' wanna make sure this doesn't make me sick, is all. It's _so_ good, an' I don't wanna throw it all up after."

 _Lab?_ Tweek thought, frowning darkly. _Jesus, kid._

Butters took a few more slow bites. Apparently satisfied that he wasn't going to vomit, Butters set down his fork and tore into his food like he hadn't eaten all year. Tweek watched him for a while, oddly relaxed. _I think...everything might be okay. Green lights, man. Crisis averted._

"S-so," Butters said all of a sudden, wiping his mouth, "u-um, where's Mysterion?"

 _I was wondering when you were going to ask, kid._ Tweek grinned. Judging from Butters's slight blush, he'd been working up the courage. _Should I tell him Kenny's name?_ Nah...Kenny probably wanted to do that himself. Complete with pick-up lines.

"Myst is...arg, he stepped out for a bit." Tweek said, running a hand back through his hair. He inadvertently smoothed the wild locks down even more. "He should be back pretty soon." _I hope._

"O-oh. Okay," Butters said, glancing away from Tweek's knowing smile. He hadn't expected to feel disappointed, but he was. _Well, he did kind of save my life and all...Tweek too._

Butters peeked up at Tweek, blushing harder. "Tweek? Um...I jus' wanted to say…" Butters gulped, and rushed along, " _Thank_ _you_. Thank you so much for doin' what you did for me, you an' Mysterion."

Tweek blinked, taken aback. "Ngh, hey, no problem kid! It's what we do, y'know?"

"I know," Butters whispered. "But still. If it hadn't b-been for you fellas, I'd probably be back in _that_ place. So thank you. From the bottom of my heart."

"Aww, man...you're gonna make me fucking cry over here! _Fuck_. Ngh, you're welcome, kid." Tweek said, chuckling. "Say, when Myst comes in, thank him in person, okay? He'll really like that."

Butters fidgeted. "Ah...o-okay. I will."

 _Cute,_ Tweek thought, shaking his head, watching as Butters finished the rest of his dinner. _Jeez…_

Kenny was going to lose his shit over this kid, Tweek just _knew_ it. Great. That was the absolute _last_ thing they needed, Butters included.

"Wanna watch some TV?" Tweek asked when they were both finished, picking up the remote.

"Cartoons!" Butters said cheerfully, joining Tweek on the couch. With rest and a full belly, Butters was happier than he'd been in _forever_. Part of him knew he couldn't stay. He'd have to get out of this town for his own good and the safety of everyone around him...but he didn't want to think about that right now. Butters just wanted to watch some damn cartoons.

"Cartoons it is," Tweek said, laughing as he flipped through the channels. Bebe only had basic cable, and right now every channel appeared to be showing the same thing. Tweek frowned.

"No cartoons?" Butters inquired.

"Ngh, it's some kind of special broadcast," Tweek said, turning up the volume. "On every damn channel? The hell's going on?"

Tweek put down the remote, and together he and Butters watched the broadcast. After a few minutes, Butters forgot that he'd been _happy_ just a moment ago.

"Oh no," Butters whispered, terrified.

"Jesus Christ," Tweek muttered, unable to tear his eyes away, a horrified expression on his face. "Fuck. This is bad. This is really, _REALLY_ bad."

* * *

Sometimes, when Wendy was feeling particularly upset, she got the urge to call up her ex-fiance, Stan Marsh.

It was only natural, she supposed. They'd been together since they were _children_ , friends first and then lovers, toughing it out through thick and thin. Stan had been her rock, her island of consolation for so long that running to him was almost a muscle-memory. Wendy still kept a picture of Stan in her desk drawer, and sometimes she'd pull it out when no one was around, stare at Stan's smiling face and remember the good old days. But that's just it, that's _all_ they were. _Old_ days.

Wendy sighed, leaning back in her chair. She hadn't wanted to acknowledge it back then, but what was the point in lying to herself now? She and Stan had been growing apart _for years,_ barely seeing each other, barely interacting. It was painful to think of now, painful and terribly obvious, but she supposed neither of them had wanted to be the one to let go first. It was so hard to give up something you were used to, Wendy had discovered, even if that something was bad for you. When she caught Stan cheating, with another _man_ , no less, Wendy hadn't even been angry. Oh, sure, she was hurt, they both were. But it was the kind of hurt you feel after losing a good friend, not a fiance. Like it or not, her relationship with Stan had run its course, and when they parted ways — Stan moving out, giving her a final kiss on the cheek — Wendy's tears had mostly been tears of relief. Her mother had raised bloody hell, but Wendy knew their marriage would have been a _disaster_.

They'd been separated for almost a year now, but Wendy still missed him, still _loved_ him. How could she not? It was _Stan_. In his way, he'd been her best friend and always would. If she called him up now, Wendy knew he would listen to her gladly, maybe offer to take her out for coffee or have lunch. But that was just her muscle-memory playing tricks with her. Wendy was trying to learn how to be her own best friend, but it was _hard_.

Sighing again, Wendy stowed away her picture of Stan and stood up. In fifteen minutes, she would have to get in front of a camera and do the evening broadcast with Gary and a certain _insufferable_ fat-ass. Procrastinating for some unknown reason, Wendy walked over to the corkboard she had mounted on one wall of her tiny office. It was filled with all sorts of newspaper clippings and articles that Wendy had written herself, but one in particular caught her eye, the big report she'd done a couple of months ago.

The headline seemed to scream at her: WHO IS MYSTERION?

Who, indeed. Wendy frowned, feeling an odd mix of embarrassment and pleasure. When Mr. Garrison slapped the assignment down on her desk, at first she'd been livid. Wendy had gotten into this field to do _serious journalism_ , not to write up buzzy articles on some _wacko_ who may or may not have even been real. But Mysterion was big news, and Mr. Garrison had given her little choice. Wendy had done the report grudgingly, never realizing that Mysterion was indeed very real, and that a chance encounter with him would lead to an _extremely_ steamy affair. Wendy blushed, the memory of their last tryst coming back to her. Oh God, if anyone ever found out, she'd be _ruined_! The public embarrassment would no doubt wreck her career and outright kill her mother...so why the hell did she keep _doing_ it?

Well...it was simple, really. She did it because it was _exciting_ , and Wendy craved excitement more than anything.

All her life she'd been a good girl. Wendy was a model daughter and an excellent student, and had always done everything that was expected of her. Her passion and ambition had carried her through school on valedictorian wings. Wendy had always known exactly what she wanted to do and who she wanted to be, and had achieved her success with the grace and ease with which she'd achieved _everything_. Once she got it, however, Wendy realized that something vitally important was missing in her life. Imagine. Only twenty—three years old, and already having a _midlife crisis_.

_Maybe I should call Stan...it wouldn't hurt._

Biting her lip, Wendy turned away from her corkboard — and froze. Her office had a big window with a good view of the hall, which was perhaps the only nice thing about it. Wendy could see men moving through the halls of the South Park Gazette through the cracks in the slightly drawn blinds.

Men with _guns_.

Before she could process this, before she could even become _scared,_ the door to her office was suddenly kicked open, and the tallest, _handsomest_ man she'd ever seen walked in. He had straight, jet-black that reminded her instantly of Stan, and blue eyes like Stan's too. The similarities ended there. This man, whoever he was, had eyes that were pale and cool, gorgeous in their iciness. His face was expressionless, but somehow that only _added_ to his looks, made him seem almost untouchable. He was wearing a dark blue suit that was so well-tailored it was almost as if he'd been poured into it. The mystery man regarded Wendy blankly, and she was so shocked at first she didn't notice the Desert Eagle in his hands, pointed _right at her._ When she did, Wendy's mouth went dry and her heart began to pound, so fast she felt faint.

"Who...who are you?" Wendy whispered, trembling. "Please...please don't kill me."

"I won't." The man replied, in a deep, even monotone. "So long as you do exactly as I say. Hands up and come with me. _Now_."

Wendy went.

She found herself in the newsroom, which had been taken over by dozens of armed men. Gary, Cartman, Mr. Garrison and several cameramen were all there, looking equally pale and terrified. Wendy met Cartman's gaze, for once without hostility. Cartman's expression was strange, a combination of fear, anger and disbelief. His brown eyes were big in his chubby face. Cartman's eyes were probably the only nice thing about him.

"Everyone accounted for?" A woman with red hair asked. She was _very_ beautiful, slim and athletic, but there was something about her coy smile that Wendy loathed instantly.

"Who the fuck are you people?" Mr. Garrison muttered, his voice shaky. " _Terrorists_? You can do better than this, don't you think?"

"Shut up, _baldy_!" The red-haired woman snapped, shoving a piece of paper in Gary Harrison's hands. "Congratulations, boy scout! Today's your lucky day. You're doing the broadcast of a lifetime."

"I...I don't understand," Gary replied, cringing away from the woman.

"I want you to get on air," the red-haired woman purred, "and announce to the whole town that if Mysterion doesn't get his ass down here and _give us what we want_ , we're going to kill the hostages. And guess what, bad boy…"

The woman laughed, flipping a lock of her coppery hair over one shoulder. " _You're_ the hostages."

Cartman groaned suddenly, shaking his head. "Mother _FUCKER_!"

There was an uproar in Skeeter's Bar. Everyone was staring at the old TV that had been mounted above the hooch, talking loudly. The broadcast that had just been aired was as bizarre as it was frightening. No doubt, everyone in town had been watching, and if not, they would soon hear about it.

Everyone but one person, it seemed.

Kenny McCormick was slumped over the countertop, dead to the world. He was surrounded by shot glasses and suffering from alcohol poisoning.


	7. Chapter 7

 

**5.**

"No more games, no more of your _stupid_ fucking heroics. I will make you regret wasting my time."

**~ Craig Tucker.**

* * *

The South Park PD had the Gazette surrounded within minutes.

Dozens upon dozens of police cruisers lined the street in both directions, their flashing sirens painting the snow in shades of red and blue. Police Chief Token had set up a barricade with a TV monitor of all things, and was watching it with a grim expression on his face. The terrorists — if that's indeed what they were, even now nobody seemed to know — simply kept the cameras rolling after their initial threatening broadcast. There was no message being played now, but the image of the hostages on their knees, with two masked and machine-gun wielding men standing directly behind them, was all the message they needed.

Token didn't know if these maniacs would actually make good on their threats and he really didn't want to find out. He couldn't get the image of Gary Harrison's pale, terrified face as he was forced to read the note the hijackers had passed him out of his mind. Gary Harrison was a born news anchor — his voice hadn't wavered once, even with his obvious distress — but any eagle-eyed person could have seen how badly his hands were shaking, and Token was eagle-eyed indeed. The Police Chief clenched his fists so hard his nails bit bleeding crescents into his palms, trembling with rage. These were the people he'd sworn to protect. It was the oath he'd taken when he'd been promoted to Chief of Police, and yet he'd never felt so helpless and confused. Just who were these assholes, and why did they want Mysterion so badly they'd taken over the Gazette just to lure him in?

Token glanced out into the night, his mouth set in a hard line. He'd never taken Mysterion seriously. As far as he was concerned, the so-called "superhero" was just a lunatic vigilante who had taken it upon himself to do a job that the men and women of the South Park Police Department did every day, and do it _badly_. Sure, Mysterion had saved a few people, Token grimly allowed him that much, but his off-the-record brand of justice had no place here, not in _his_ town.

Token had promised himself that one day he would find out who Mysterion really was, and when that day happened, no amount of good deeds would be able to save him from the padded _prison cell_ where he belonged. The Police Chief glanced back at the TV monitor, grimacing. Token had never taken Mysterion seriously, but apparently there was someone out there who did, and they meant business. If Mysterion really was the superhero he claimed to be, he had to show up. He _had_ to. Or else they'd all be watching live executions, and Token didn't think he could handle it.

"Sir, what the hell are we waiting for?! Why can't we just storm the building?"

Token sighed, and turned to face Stan Marsh, standing tense as a drawn bowstring behind the barricade of police vehicles. The air was already thick with apprehension and uncertainty, but nowhere was that feeling thicker than with Stan Marsh. His cornflower blue eyes were narrowed, his face was pale and his breaths were ragged puffs of pale white smoke in the icy air. Clyde Donovan stood beside him, considerably calmer but no less worried, his hazel eyes concerned under the brim of the crisp navy police cap he was wearing.

"We've been given the order to stand back, Officer Marsh." Token replied stiffly, glancing up at the building. Stan inhaled sharply, shaking with disbelief.

"Stand back? By _who_? That doesn't make any fucking sense!"

"By the mayor," Token deadpanned, "and no, it doesn't. But it doesn't matter. The hijackers have already informed us that if we take so much as a step toward the building, they'll shoot the hostages in the head, and it'll be on live TV. They want Mysterion and Mysterion _only_."

Stan hissed, his face contorting with grief and rage. "Chief...we can't just fucking _stand_ here! What if he doesn't show up?!"

Token sighed. "I don't know. We better pray he does."

Clyde cleared his throat nervously, gently laying a hand on Stan's shoulder. "I'm sure he'll show up, dude. I mean, I know he's a vigilante and all, but there's _no way_ Mysterion would let people get killed on account of him. I mean, that would be _totally_ un-superhero!"

"You don't fucking know that!" Stan snarled, wrenching himself out of Clyde's grasp. Clyde paled a little as Stan whirled on him, his eyes dark with fury. "My fucking fiancée is in there!"

The words were out before he knew it. Stan paused, surprised at himself. Wendy hadn't been his fiancée in _months_. His feelings for her had faded slowly but surely, the passionate love he'd once felt eventually becoming a comforting kind of fondness. He supposed they both should have seen the writing on the wall. Toward the end they were practically strangers, and the preparations for their wedding — the grand wedding in Paris that Wendy's parents had excitedly bankrolled — were disinterested at best. Breaking it off for good was the best decision they'd ever made as far as Stan was concerned, but he wasn't proud of the fact that Wendy had caught him fucking their wedding planner. Their very _male_ wedding planner. Stan had never been particularly good at being sneaky, though.

Clyde was staring at him with wide eyes. "Whoa, dude! I didn't know you were _engaged_."

Stan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I meant to say that she's my _ex_ -fiancée," he muttered, "but I still care about her. I'll _always_ care about her."

"Dude," Clyde replied, looking amazed, "you don't mean Wendy Testaburger, do you?" Stan nodded glumly. _Whoa_ , Clyde thought, hoping his shock wouldn't show up on his face. Hearing that Stan had once been engaged was surprising enough, but hearing that he'd once been engaged to _Wendy_ was mind-boggling. Wendy was gorgeous, and even though Clyde had only seen her TV, he definitely thought she was much too good for the likes of Stan Marsh. But besides all that, Clyde had always gotten the impression that Stan preferred to bat for his own team. Whether he did or didn't was none of his business, Clyde wasn't judging, but it had always made for juicy gossip around the station.

"She's in danger," Stan continued, his voice low, "while we're standing around doing _nothing_!"

"I understand, Marsh." Token said, his own voice harsh. Token sounded angry, but Clyde was willing to bet that the Chief of Police was directing that anger mostly at himself. Token's jaw was tightly clenched, and his dark eyes were hard and bitter.

"I want to end this as much as you do." Token snapped. "Do you really think I like standing here feeling useless? I don't. Our hands are _tied_ , Marsh. Until the situation shifts in our favor, all we can do is _wait_."

Stan let out a shuddering breath, glancing forlornly up at the building. Rushing in with guns blazing was probably the _worst_ thing they could do considering the circumstances, but Stan looked as if he wanted to take that building down with his bare hands. Clyde couldn't really blame him. If someone he loved had been inside, he would have wanted to do the same thing.

Clyde bit his lip and stared off down the blockaded street. _C'mon Tweek, and Mysterion whoever-the-fuck you are, I know you guys are out there! We've got some major shit on our hands, dudes!_

Clyde had left Tweek out of his report on Mysterion. He still doesn't know why he did, only that at the time, it had seemed like the right thing to do. His childhood friend was obviously working with the vigilante superhero for reasons Clyde couldn't even begin to imagine, and Token would have wanted to know about it...but Clyde just _couldn't_ give Tweek up. Even though they'd lost contact, Clyde never stopped considering the guy his friend. He just hoped his little omission wouldn't come back to bite him in the ass. After all, from what he'd seen the night Mysterion had knocked him out, Tweek was _radically_ different from the weak little spazoid he'd been in high school.

_I hope you know how to use those nines you were packing, Tweek._

Clyde shuddered and turned back to the monitor, trying to ignore the nasty feeling of dread in his gut. He sincerely hoped this wasn't one of those situations where things got worse before they got better.

* * *

Red looked out the window and giggled, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"Would you look at that," she said to no one in particular, her brown eyes gleaming with amusement, "they're like a bunch of helpless little _ants_ down there! Gosh, I suppose the doctor really does have Mayor McDaniels in his pocket, hmm?"

"Red." Craig said, a single word spoken in a low, warning tone.

"I didn't say any names!" Red pouted, turning away from the window. " _Gosh_! If you don't learn to relax, you'll end up in an early grave, sweetie."

Craig didn't even bother to scowl. The tall, dark-haired man was on high alert, his pale blue eyes trained on the entrance to the newsroom, as if he was expecting a SWAT team to come bursting in at any moment. Red honestly didn't know why he was so nervous — her plan had gone off without a hitch, if she did say so herself.

Ugh, _men_.

Red yawned and walked back to the newsdesk, her thigh-high heeled boots clicking softly. She sank down with a blissful sigh, propped her feet up, and picked up the Vogue magazine she'd found there. The hostages they'd taken were lined up on their knees before the desk, like ducks in a row. Gary Harrison looked like he was about to _piss_ himself. Red hoped he _would_ , just so she could have something to laugh at. Wendy knelt beside him looking equally terrified, but she was holding it together with admirable courage. Mr. Garrison was a... _difficult_ man to read. Red honestly couldn't tell if he was bored or frightened, but so far he'd held his tongue, and that was good enough for her.

Cartman, on the other hand, didn't seem particularly intimidated at all. In fact, the fat prick looked more _annoyed_ than anything, his expression dark and scornful. It was almost as if he was looking _down_ on her, even though he was the one on his knees with a gun to his head. Red glanced at him, smiling coyly. Cartman simply frowned, watching her with defiant, _intelligent_ light brown eyes. _Looks like we got a tough one here_ , Red thought, grinning. _How interesting._

"Hey sexy! Did you know leg warmers were back in style?" Red asked, flipping through the glossy pages of Vogue. Craig actually glared at her, which was a pretty good indication of just how much he was on edge. Normally, Craig would have ignored her outright, his devastatingly handsome face utterly expressionless.

"Have you considered the possibility that Mysterion may not show?" Craig demanded, his voice razory with irritation. "This is starting to feel like a dangerous fucking waste of time."

"He'll show up." Red replied, bored. "It's only been, like, fifteen minutes. God, I _hope_ you aren't this impatient in bed."

"What if he doesn't?" Craig snapped, persistent as an attack dog with a death hold. Red rolled her eyes, slapped the magazine down and stood up.

"You are _really_ fucking annoying." Red said, exasperated. "You better be damn glad you're so handsome."

Red swept her eyes over the hostages, considering. When her gaze landed on Wendy she smiled. The dark-haired woman went several shades paler, trembling.

" _You_ ," Red said, pointing a finger at Wendy and hooking it in a _come-hither_ gesture, "stand up. Come here."

Wendy uttered a small, hissing sound of fear and shook her head, her eyes pleading _No_. A hired gun behind her simply grabbed her arm and forced her to her feet, nudging Wendy roughly in the back with the butt of his firearm when she refused to move. Wendy took several halting steps in Red's direction, while Gary and Mr. Garrison watched mutely, sick to their stomachs. Cartman grit his teeth and made a move to rise, but he was quickly forced back on his knees.

"Are the cameras still rolling?" Red demanded, glancing at the two cameramen they'd taken hostage as well. When the men nodded fearfully, Red turned her attention to Wendy, looking her up and down with a cool smirk. Wendy couldn't seem to stop trembling, but she returned Red's gaze bravely enough, her head held high. Red laughed softly and began to slowly circle the woman, like a predator closing in on its prey.

"Miss Testaburger, isn't it?" Red asked, reaching out to run her fingers lightly through Wendy's soft, thick black hair. Wendy shuddered at her touch, pulling away with a sneer of disgust on her lovely face.

"That's _right_ ," Wendy tossed back, her voice quavering, but only a little. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Are you _proud_ of yourself, holding innocent people hostage like this?"

Red laughed again, amused. "Gosh, you're a little _spitfire_ , aren't you? How a- _dor_ -able! Hmm, I bet you're a real _whirlwind_ in the sack…"

Wendy colored, her expression darkening. She remained stubbornly silent as Red halted before her, crossing her arms with an unpleasant expression.

"You are _unfairly_ fucking pretty." Red complained, _tsking_ softly. "How many guys do you think have whacked off thinking about you, love? You look like you were one of those stuck-up, perfect, _popular_ girls in school. Tell me, did you ever have to go down on any of your professors? Or are you as smart as you are beautiful?"

Red leaned forward, smiling wickedly. Wendy's clenched her fists, shaking with barely suppressed outrage, her gaze filled with loathing. She wanted nothing more than to _claw_ this woman's eyes out, to wipe that coy, _shit-eating_ smile right off her face. Somehow Wendy knew — as surely as she knew her own name — that if she made a move against her, this woman, this _Red_ , would kill her without hesitation. There was a cruelty about Red so intense it was almost tangible.

"My ass is tighter than yours," Red continued conversationally, "but that's only to be expected. I probably get a little more exercise than you. You have _much_ better tits than I do, though. I'm jealous."

Without warning, Red stuck her hand down Wendy's silk blouse, squeezing her nipples. Wendy gasped in horror and disgust, and then wrenched away so violently she ripped a few buttons. Red threw back her head and laughed, while Wendy shook like a leaf caught in a fierce breeze, covering herself with an incredulous expression.

"What are you doing." Craig asked, his deep voice a monotone. Craig's pale, ice-blue eyes were steely and disapproving.

"Mysterion _likes_ girls," Red answered flippantly, eying Wendy with her previous unpleasant expression, "He'll most _definitely_ show up if we torture this bitch on live television! What do you say, sweetie? Should we force her to suck every dick in the room?"

Craig was silent, but some of the hired guns laughed at Red's suggestion. Wendy felt so sick she thought she was going to cry, but she suspected that was _exactly_ what Red wanted, and she wasn't about to give this horrible bitch the satisfaction.

_Mysterion, I know all we ever had was a cheap, tawdry affair...but if you're watching, if you ever cared about me in the slightest, HELP us._

"Fuck you," Wendy hissed.

Red snorted. "Bold words! If I were you, I'd _rethink_ them."

"No," Wendy replied, slowly straightening up, ignoring Gary's mortified look, "go to _hell_ , bitch!"

Red paused, cocking her head. For a moment it looked as if Red were deep in thought, pondering the situation, before she sighed sadly and gestured to the nearest hired gun.

"Shoot her in those perky tits of hers," Red said, plopping back down behind the newsdesk, "and make sure you get it on _camera_. I don't want Mysterion to miss it."

_Oh, God._ Wendy's face went slack. The world seemed to blur and then slow to a crawl as a hired gun seized her from behind, his grip hard and unyielding. Wendy was dragged forward with the sound of her heart pounding in her ears ( _ba-thump, ba-thump_ ), stumbling over her own feet like a child just learning how to walk. The tall, raven-haired man loitering in the background took a sudden step in her direction, his expression stony, and Wendy honestly couldn't tell if he meant to _help_ her or _hurt_ her _(ba-thump, ba-thump_ ).

Wendy could hear someone shouting desperately, but the sound was _muffled_ somehow, as if someone had shoved wads of cotton in her ears ( _ba-thump, ba-thump_ ). It took her a long moment to realize that those shouts were coming from Gary, endless cries of _"Stop it, don't hurt her, please!"_ but he was quickly silenced by a vicious cuff to the side of his face, followed by a brutal kick in the ribs. _No, not Gary, he's such a nice guy!_ Wendy twisted, struggling futilely, too petrified to scream. Her heart was a maddening drumbeat in her ears ( _ba-thumpba-thumpba-thumpba-thump_ ) and her knees had gone weak.

Wendy thought she heard the raven-haired man issue a command in that deep, authoritative baritone of his, but nothing was making _sense_ to her anymore, nothing quite registered. _Don't shoot me, please, don't shoot me_ , was all she could seem to think.

"EYY!" Cartman suddenly snapped. Wendy had just enough time to see Cartman throw something at the startled Red. It hit the woman right between the eyes with a solid _smacking_ sound, bounced off and fell on the newsdesk. The room went dead silent.

_Cartman's...shoe?_ Wendy thought, frozen in place. _Why the hell did Cartman throw his shoe?_

Red had gone pale, her eyes wide with disbelief. There was a perfect imprint of a size 10 men's loafer stamped on her lovely face, almost as red as her hair. Cartman glared at her, his expression undeniably _haughty_. Wendy couldn't believe it.

"Jesus _Christ_ ," Cartman said, rolling his eyes. "Would you shut your fucking mouth, you troll-faced, horse-banging, brain-dead _skidmark_? You aren't impressing anybody, okay? It's just fucking _sad_. We _get_ it! Your Daddy _touched_ you, and now you spend your days trying to prove you're some kind of badass, when in reality, you're nothing but a vapid, leathery piece of _crusty dog shit_. I'm _so_ seriouslah, you wouldn't even make a decent cum-dumpster, and I bet that's your only notable skill. So calm your saggy-ass tits, you're _embarrassing_."

_Whoa_ , Wendy thought, awed.

"Cartman, for fuck's sake." Mr. Garrison said, exhausted. "Did you really have to say what we were all thinking?"

Red slowly rose to her feet, her expression eerily calm. The thought of what she would do next made Wendy feel ill, but the raven-haired man suddenly took her by the arm — his touch surprisingly gentle — and led her away.

"Sit," the man said, his tone brooking no argument. Wendy practically crumpled in relief next to the bleeding Gary, but it was _Cartman_ she was watching, with a concern she never thought she'd feel for the offensive fat ass. _Did he say all that just to distract her? No...Cartman would never do anything so selfless._

"What did you say?" Red asked sweetly, her eyes drilling holes in Cartman's face. "I didn't quite catch all that. Do you want to repeat it?"

"Did I stuh-stuh- _stutter_ , skank?" Cartman replied, in a bored tone.

"Red," the raven-haired man said, "don't —"

With a sneer of hatred, Red whipped a pistol out of God-knows-where, aimed it Cartman, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit Cartman in the stomach, rocking him back. Wendy screamed, Mr. Garrison cursed, Gary uttered something that might well have been a prayer and the raven-haired man strode purposefully toward the newsdesk, his long legs eating up the ground.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Craig asked, struggling, honestly _struggling_ , not to lose his temper. "I thought we agreed not to kill anyone. Your bullshit is going to draw too much attention. Why are you so fucking stupid?"

Red rolled her eyes, a smile playing across her pouty lips. Behind her, Gary, Wendy and Mr. Garrison had all jumped up and were kneeling beside Cartman, groaning in a quickly spreading pool of his own blood.

"Good lord, it's just a gut-shot!" Red replied defensively, shrugging her shoulders. "A gut-shot isn't fatal. _Painful_ , yes, but not fatal."

"Oh my God, _Eric_!" Wendy sobbed, tearing off her silk blouse with badly shaking hands. She pressed the smooth material to Cartman's tummy in a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding, but her blouse was soaked within seconds, and pretty soon her hands were, too. Cartman was gazing up at her with hazy light brown eyes, his expression twisted in a grimace of agony.

"Stupid bitch actually _shot_ me," Cartman groaned, "Someone...kick her in the testicles for me…"

"Eric, _why_?" Wendy demanded, suddenly infuriated, but Cartman just gave her his old familiar condescending look. Somehow, that only made her cry harder.

"Christ," Cartman muttered, "Wendy...stop crying. We'll be...fucking _fine_."

Wendy bit her lip, shaking her head, her shoulders trembling with the effort of holding back her sobs. This was probably the first time they'd ever referred to each other by their first names. _Eric…_

"Don't try to talk, buddy-boy," Gary said softly. His bottom lip was busted and swollen. "Hey, for the record, I always respected you, Cartman."

Cartman groaned. "For...the record, I always hated you, you...Mormon _faggot_. If we...die, I hope you burn in...fucking hell. Ugh…"

"It's okay, trooper," Gary replied soothingly, "I know you don't mean that."

Mr. Garrison ripped off the Burberry cashmere scarf he'd tied around his neck at a jaunty angle, and pressed it to Cartman's stomach on top of Wendy's blouse.

"You owe me a new scarf, just so you know." Mr. Garrison said, a wry smile on his lips.

Cartman groaned again. "You guys...seriouslah…"

"He's bleeding out." Craig deadpanned, watching the scene, his pale blue eyes narrowed.

"Like I said, he'll be _fine_ ," Red replied, unmoved, "I'm sure the fat prick probably _wishes_ he were dead right now, but it takes _days_ to die from a gut-shot." Red re-holstered her pistol and plopped back down, casually picking up the discarded issue of Vogue, as if she hadn't just shot a man in cold blood.

"Ooh, did you know Jennifer Aniston was pregnant?" Red cooed suddenly, flipping through the magazine. Craig grit his teeth and turned away from her in disgust.

_Mysterion,_ Wendy thought, trying not to freak out over how much blood Cartman was losing, _please, hurry the fuck up._

* * *

Tweek tore through Kenny's duffel bag with a grim expression on his face, carelessly tossing out triple-X rated porn mags with sticky pages, tubes of lubricant, boxes of condoms, the odd book or two and his spare clothes. He dug around in his friend's things until he found what he was looking for: Kenny's Mysterion costume.

He spread out the cowl and cape with his stomach twisted into knots of anxiety, along with the black mask, the thick gloves, and lastly, the dark lavender bodysuit. Tweek shoved everything into a grocery bag while Butters watched with a miserable expression, his aquamarine eyes big and shiny in his boyish face. Butters couldn't seem to stop rubbing his knuckles together. Tweek guessed that it must be a nervous tick of his — boy, did he know all about _those_ — but he didn't exactly have time to comfort the kid, even if he'd known what to say. Hell, Tweek really wished someone would comfort _him_ right now. Preferably Bebe. Preferably, wearing only a thong. Tweek sighed. Here he was rushing off on a suicide mission, and he'd never worked up the nerve to tell Bebe that he had the _biggest_ fucking crush on her. Not that she would have responded favorably in any case. _Too busy trying to fuck Kenny into loving her._

The thought was steeped in bitterness, but Tweek figured he could have a pass just this once.

"Umm, Mr. Tweek…" Butters began softly.

"Shh, kid." Tweek replied gently. He needed to concentrate, and he already had a pretty good idea of what Butters was going to say.

Swallowing hard, Tweek ripped open his own duffel bag and pulled out two boxes of spare ammunition. He tossed them into the grocery bag along with Kenny's costume, then checked his nines, cocking the pistols back with a sharp _chick-CHACK!_ sound. Tweek tucked both guns into the waistband of his jeans, pulled the hem of his black hoodie down, and reached for his jailbroken iPhone. He punched in Kenny's number and waited, but after a few rings his call went straight to voicemail.

Yo, this is Kenny-motherfuckin'-McCormick. I'm busy right now, so leave a message. If you're someone I actually WANT to talk to, I'll get back to you later. Peace.

"Jesus Christ, man!" Tweek shouted in frustration after the beep, "Where the fuck ARE you?! We have a _serious_ fucking situation on our hands! NGH, if you're screwing around right now I swear to God, man, I _SWEAR TO GOD_ I will kick your fucking _ass_ the next time I see you! _Arghhh_! When you get this message, call me back!"

Tweek hung up and washed his hands over his face, shuddering. What else could go wrong tonight, man, _what else_ …?

Tweek felt a gentle touch on his sleeve. When he looked up, Butters was standing beside him, frowning.

"Wuh-uh, why ain't the cops doin' nothin?" Butters asked, with a familiar pout.

"I don't know, kiddo. Ngh, they just aren't." Tweek replied, tucked his phone into his pocket. He looked around, wondering if there was anything else he might need, but all that was left were Kenny's weapons and Tweek didn't know how to use those. Besides, Kenny when he returned — _if_ he returned — would definitely need them.

"Okay kid," Tweek says, laying a hand on Butters's small shoulder, "ngh, here's the plan…" Tweek couldn't help pausing and snorting a little at that, because he didn't really have a _plan_ , just a desperate fucking shot in the dark, "Look, I'm going to go down there, put on Mysterion's costume and turn myself in. I need you to —"

But Butters wasn't listening anymore. The boy flushed, his expression horrified.

"No!" Butters cried, yanking his sleeve, "Mr. Tweek, you _can't_! I tell ya, it's a _trap_!"

"GAH, I _know_ it's a trap, kid! But —"

"Wuh-why ain't the police doin' _nothin'_?! A-and Mysterion, won't he need his costume?" Butters was dangerously close to tears, his voice high and panicky, "Where is he?! Where's _Mysterion_? Ain't he supposed to be a superhero? Ain't he —"

"Fucking hell, kid, I DON'T FUCKING _KNOW_!" Tweek shouted, exhausted, exasperated and angry, though not necessarily at Butters. "RAH, just shut the fuck up and LISTEN, this is important, alright?!"

Butters flinched, all the color draining from his face, before he flushed again, his chin wobbling with fury.

"Fuck _you_ , you...you unfinished Muppet!" Butters shot back, giving Tweek a hard shove. "I never shoulda trusted you! I never shoulda trusted _any_ of you!"

Butters made sudden a beeline for the guestroom. Tweek scrambled to stop him, jumping in front of the kid to block his way.

" _Move_!" Butters snarled, all his sweet Southern affectation gone, "You better jus' move, or I'll...I'll…"

"Please kid, I'm sorry!" Tweek insisted, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender, "Ngh, look at me! LOOK AT ME! I'm fucking scared too, man!"

Butters paused, giving Tweek a hard stare. The skinny man looked haggard, his platinum-blond hair hanging down over his face in wispy strands, his dark green eyes like mossy wells surrounded by permanent dark smudges. Tweek had really beautiful hands, Butters thought, his fingers long and graceful, but they were shaking with obvious distress.

"You saw what happened, kid." Tweek said in a lower tone. "That chick just _shot_ someone, and those people are probably going to do much worse if we don't DO something! _Ngh_ , Myst could be on his way _right now_ , but just in case he _isn't_ , we need a backup plan! If Myst were in my shoes he'd do the same thing, okay? Do you really wanna run outta here knowing people might _die_ , kid, do you?! You're pretty tough, but you just don't strike me as being heartless."

Butters bit his lip, glancing down. "I…"

"I gotta go, kid." Tweek said, struggling to control the spasms threatening to overtake his body, "Look, um, i-if something happens to me, Myst will know what to do. I need you to _stay here_ and give him this when he gets back."

"What's this?" Butters asked apathetically, as Tweek pressed something into his palm.

"No time to explain it, kid," Tweek replied, picking up the grocery bag that he'd stuffed with ammo and Kenny's costume, "just...GAH! Please just fucking _promise_ me you'll give that to him, okay?"

"I promise," Butters said solemnly, closing his hand securely around the small device, "Um...I'm s-sorry I yelled too, Mr. Tweek."

"Jesus, this is a _tense_ situation, don't worry about it," Tweek replied, sighing. "Ngh...do I _really_ look like an unfinished Muppet, though?"

Butters blushed a little. "Wuh-uh, naw, you don't. I was jus' sayin' stuff, Mr. Tweek. You're real handsome, an' all."

_Oh_. The compliment was totally unexpected, and it made Tweek feel both grateful and uncomfortable. _Handsome? Geez, no way! Ugh, stop letting this stupid shit distract you and get on with it!_

"Look kid, it's just _Tweek_ , okay? None of that _Mister_ bullshit," Tweek replied grouchily, "I can't handle all that fucking formality man, it's _way_ too much pressure!"

Butters smiled weakly. "'Kay...Tweek."

"Okay," Tweek said, taking a deep breath, " _Ngh_ , the South Park Gazette is like, four blocks from here. Time to make my goddamn TV debut."

Tweek started for the door, but he turned around at the last second, anxiously scratching the back of his head. "Hey, uh, if you see Bebe... _ngh_ , tell her I always thought she was really fucking beautiful."

Butters blinked. Tweek was gone before he could question it, slamming the door behind him.

_Alone again. Gee, it seems like I'm always being left alone,_ Butters thought, gazing blankly down at the thing Tweek had given him. Alone _..._

It would have been _ridiculously_ easy to just grab his shirt, raid the house, and walk right out that door, right out of this fucking _town_ , leave all the madness and the horrible memories behind. After all, these people weren't anything to him, not really. Butters was finally free and he had to start looking after himself now, he had no more excuses...but…

_/You're pretty tough, but you just don't strike me as being heartless./_

No, he wasn't heartless. Even after everything he'd been through, and all the bad shit that they'd done to him...Butters's heart was still as big as ever.

"Aw, geez." Butters muttered, turning nervously back to the TV.

* * *

Kenny was shorter and in much better shape than he was, so his costume bunched tight in some places and sagged horribly in others.

Tweek put on Kenny's mask with his stomach well and truly in knots, and tried to call his friend one more time, even though he really wasn't expecting anything. Just like before, the phone rang a few times and then went straight to voicemail, but Tweek simply hung up without bothering to leave a message. Hopefully, the silent aggravation behind all his missed calls would make Kenny feel like a real piece of shit when he got back from doing...whatever the fuck he was doing. Tweek honestly had no idea where Kenny was, but he _really_ hoped his friend wasn't doing anything he might regret later. In his own way, Tweek knew Kenny was just as bad as he was when it came to dealing with stress. McCormick just hid it better. Behind his cheerful facade and casual promiscuity, there was a lot more going on than anyone had ever given Kenny credit for, stuff he didn't want anyone to _see,_ much less know about. Tweek shuddered, pulling Mysterion's dark purple cowl over his platinum-blond hair. If he survived this, he was _so_ going to kick Kenny's irresponsible ass.

Right now, he had bigger things to worry about.

"Mysterion...to the rescue," Tweek muttered to himself, trying to mimic the deep voice Kenny used whenever he was playing his alter-ago. "Ngh, fear not, it is I... _Mysterion_."

Tweek sounded nothing like Kenny and even _less_ like Mysterion, but fuck it, fuck it _all_. He had _hostages_ to rescue. If Kenny wanted authenticity, he should have been here himself.

With that thought in mind, Tweek slipped out of a pitch-black alley and made for the blockade of police cruisers. Seeing all those boys in blue made Tweek feel like throwing up (policemen were totally just tools of The Man, man), but he grit his teeth and keep going, raising his hands above his head so the police wouldn't shoot him on sight.

"Hey, pigs!" Tweek shouted, waving to the newest cops, "I'm here, okay? Ngh, take me to your fucking leader!"

"Jesus, it's him! It's Mysterion!" One cop said, lowering his gun in amazement.

"Well I'll be," another cop added, in a thick redneck drawl. "Stick a dick in my mouth and call me _Paris Hilton_ , I didn't think this bastard would show!"

"Uh, yeah," Tweek replied in his mock-deep voice, slowly lowering his hands, "I'm here. Ngh, what's the sitch?"

_Sitch?_ Kenny totally used that word, right? Right.

"It's about fucking time," the first cop said, narrowing his eyes at Tweek, "the Chief of Police has been waiting. Chief! Hey, _Chief Token_ , over here!"

Chief Token? Token watched as a sea of cops parted and a tall, handsome black man appeared, his expression cold. Behind him trailed another dark-haired blue-eyed cop and...Clyde. Tweek almost smiled at the sight of him, then remembered he was supposed to be _Mysterion_ and scowled.

"You." Police Chief Token said coolly.

"Hey man, I'm here to —" Tweek began.

Token cranked back a fist and _punched_ Tweek in the face before he could finish that sentence.

"OW OW _OW_! NGH, JESUS _CHRIST_!" Tweek cried, grasping his nose. Token had punched him so hard he was surprised it wasn't broken. Tweek immediately felt a flash of rage through his discomfort and pain. Technically, that punch had been meant for _Kenny_.

Oh, oh he was _so_ going to kick Kenny's ass later.

Token reached down and seized Tweek by the collar, dragging him close.

"That's for taking your sweet-ass time, you son of a _bitch_ ," Token growled, shaking him, "I ought to arrest you!"

"NGH, if you arrest me, who's gonna rescue the hostages?!" Tweek snapped, struggling in Token's powerful grasp, "It's ME they want, asshole! So let me get in there!"

"Chief, dude, he's right!" Clyde said, trying to pull Token away, "Dudes, we don't time for this shit! The clock's ticking!"

Token glowered, but he released Tweek obediently, reluctance written all over his face.

"If you're going to do something, I suggest you do it." Token said flatly. Tweek bit his lip anxiously.

"Look man, I know I haven't been on good terms with the police, but I'm asking for your help. NGH, I can't do this alone, it's WAY too much pressure!" Tweek said, his eyes full of pleading. "I'll go in first and distract them. I want you guys storm the building in five minutes and get everyone out of there!"

Clyde was staring at him strangely, but Token actually looked as if he was considering it. The dark-haired cop beside him frowned impatiently, gesturing up at the building.

"Chief, people's _lives_ are at stake here! We can deal with the rest later!"

"For once, I totally agree, Marsh." Token said, before he turned to glare at Tweek. "Five minutes. Now go!"

"NGH, right!" Tweek said. He turned and ran for the building, a 9mm in hand.

"You heard him!" Token shouted to the assembled cops. "In five minutes, we're going in!"

_Mysterion...didn't he have blue eyes? Dark blue eyes?_ Clyde thought, as his fellow police officers began scrambling. _He kind of sounds like…_

"Clyde, form up, NOW!" Token snarled.

Clyde rushed to do as he was told, putting everything else out of his mind.

Tweek burst through the double doors of the South Park Gazette's headquarters, feeling a little bit better about himself. If he could hold it together for five minutes, just _five_ minutes, the police would take care of the rest. It was terrifying, but doable — or so Tweek thought — but no sooner had he set foot in the building than he had a gun to his head.

"Oh, geez…" Tweek groaned, eying the two masked and machine-gun wielding thugs who had obviously been assigned to watch the door. "Ngh, machine-guns are for assholes who don't know how to _aim_ , y'know!"

"Shut up. Where's the boy?" One of the men barked.

"Hey, I'm not telling you phlebs anything!" Tweek snapped. "GAH, just take me to Craig Tucker before I put a bullet between your eyes and _piss_ down the hole!"

Then men exchanged a look. Tweek waited, glaring. The thugs finally stepped forward, tearing the 9mm out of Tweek's hands. _Ah, damn it._

"Bring him."

Tweek was escorted to the newsroom. The fear in the air was so thick Tweek could almost taste it. The captive news anchors were all kneeling on the floor, next to their bleeding comrade. Tweek didn't know anyone's name — he rarely watched the local news — but he immediately recognized Wendy Testaburger, wearing only a skirt and a lacy black bra. Her lovely face was deathly pale, but she immediately brightened when she saw him, her eyes filling with gratitude and relief.

"Mysterion!" Wendy exclaimed, her shoulders sagging, "God...I was so worried." Then she smiled, her lips trembling. "I _knew_ you'd come."

_Goddamn,_ Tweek thought, a little dazed, _if putting on the Mysterion costume is all it takes to get beautiful women to look at me like that, maybe I ought to wear it more often._

"There he is," a red-headed woman said, smiling coyly. "See? I told you this would work, sweetie."

Craig Tucker's gaze was heavy. He was definitely a lot more intimidating up close, with eyes that seemed to look right _through_ a person. He possessed an aura that was somehow untouchable, as if nothing ever got to him.

Tweek disliked him _instantly_.

"Oh _Jesus_ , it's like the circus came to town," an older-middle aged man with a balding head muttered darkly.

"Mysterion," Craig said, in a deep monotone, " _Where_ is Leopold?"

Tweek swallowed. _Time to stall._

"Hidden," Tweek snapped, "so tough luck, you cyborg motherfucker! Ngh, I came to make a trade, okay?! Let the hostages go and you can have _me_ instead! I'm the one you want, right?!"

"It's Leopold we want," Craig replied, without the slightest hint of emotion. " _You_ are just a ridiculous inconvenience."

"Why?" Tweek demanded, gritting his teeth. "Butters is just a fucking _kid_ , man! Ngh, what the fuck do you people want with him?!"

"The brat is an _extremely_ valuable experiment," the red-headed woman said in a bored tone, "and we work for an _extremely_ wealthy client who would like to have him back. So please, just tell us where he is. He's _really_ not worth all this trouble, hun."

"Go fuck yourself, okay?!" Tweek said, his left eye twitching. "Let the hostages go _first_ , and THEN we'll talk!"

Red and Craig exchanged a glance. For a moment the atmosphere was filled with crackling tension as Tweek stared down Craig's impassive gaze. Craig's head tilt was so subtle Tweek barely caught it, but it filled him with alarm all the same.

_Ah, crap._

"Mysterion, behind you!" Wendy shouted, but it was already too late.

Tweek's legs were kicked out from under him, and he winced as he was wrestled roughly to his knees and then restrained by three or four hired guns.

"RAH, get off me, GET THE FUCK OFF ME!" Tweek hissed, struggling wildly, but he couldn't break free no matter how much he twisted. He froze as Craig Tucker slowly approached him, Desert Eagle in hand, his pale blue eyes so cold they gave him chills. Craig halted before him, gazing down at Tweek as if he was an insect that needed a good, hard heel. Tweek inhaled sharply, his nerves going haywire. As if being helpless and on his knees wasn't bad enough, Craig suddenly reached down and seized him by the throat, his fingers digging into the tender flesh of his neck.

"Nghhh…ghck... _ghhh_!" Tweek choked, his eyes watering.

"No more games," Craig said softly, his deep voice seeming to reverberate in Tweek's skull, "no more of your _stupid_ fucking heroics. I will make you regret wasting my time."

Craig tightened his grip, cutting off Tweek's already limited supply of air. Dimly, he could hear Wendy shouting angrily in the background, but he couldn't make out a word she was saying over the pain in his neck and his screaming lungs. _I can't breathe...I can't...please…_

Craig eyes suddenly narrowed in suspicion and he released Tweek's neck. Tweek sagged, gasping painfully for air.

"Your eyes." Craig said, before all hell broke loose.

"Fuck!" Red snarled, drawing away from the window, "The fucking _cops_ are breaching the building!"

"What." Craig frowned. "No."

"Just because you say it ain't so don't make it _true_ , sweetie," Red snarled, a nasty smile on her face. "I suppose the rednecks got tired of waiting. There's no way we'll be able to hold here, not unless we want a bloody shootout on our hands. Knock out Mysterion and take him with us, we can torture the brat's location out of him later. Time to blow this taco joint, tiger."

"No!" Wendy cried. "Mysterion!"

_I'm not Mysterion,_ Tweek thought weakly, coughing. _Sorry Kenny, I tried…I did a horrible job, but I tried..._

That was Tweek's last coherent thought, before he was dealt a brutal blow to the temple. Tweek crumpled into a boneless heap, a thin trail of blood dribbling from his hairline.

"Pick him up," Craig ordered flatly. "You two, cover our escape. The rest of you, get to the van."

_No_ , Wendy thought, with fresh tears in her eyes.

It only took a few minutes for the police to burst into the newsroom, but by then, Craig, Red, Mysterion and all their henchmen were gone. It didn't matter. Wendy felt like she was in a living nightmare. Policemen swarmed around her. Paramedics quickly followed, descending on the unconscious Cartman like flies. One of the medics kept screaming ARE YOU OKAY? Wendy realized it was probably because her hands were covered with Cartman's blood, but she couldn't seem to respond to the question. It was as if someone had glued her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Cartman was carried off on a stretcher, an oxygen mask to his face. Gary kept insisting he was fine, but the paramedics carried him off, too. Seeing Cartman getting wheeled away snapped Wendy out of her paralysis, and she started to chase after him, without really knowing why.

But then Stan was there, hugging her tightly, smoothing back her long dark hair.

"Wendy!" Stan whispered urgently, squeezing her, "Are you okay, baby?"

_No,_ Wendy thought, clinging to Stan as if her life depended on it, _no, I'm not okay._

* * *

Kenny woke up in a filthy alley with vomit on his shirt and the sunlight drilling a hole in his head.

He immediately rolled over and vomited again, choking on it, getting even more on piss-yellow bile on his parka, on his hands, and in his long hair. For a second he couldn't breathe, and Kenny felt a stab of annoyance, because it wasn't the first time he'd died choking on his own vomit and it wasn't exactly a _pleasant_ experience. Thankfully, he was soon able to take a deep breath, his joints aching, his throat burning and his head feeling as if it were about to break apart. His vision swam, and it was so dizzying Kenny was soon retching again, vaguely wishing someone would just put him out of his fucking misery.

God...this was why he didn't like to drink. It was high-risk, low-reward, and left him feeling like absolute shit afterwards. Kenny sniffled and climbed wearily to his feet, every fiber of his being protesting against the movement. He looked around blearily and found himself gazing up at a dimmed neon sign that read Skeeter's Bar and Cocktails. Skeeter must have had him tossed out at some point, to either sober up or freeze to death at his discretion.

_That Skeeter_ , Kenny mused, forcing himself to walk, _what a class-act_.

His even-shittier-these-days Prius was right where he'd left it, smashed bumper, plastic up to the broken window and all. Kenny climbed in with a muffled groan and slowly drove to the nearest 7-Eleven. The clerk barely acknowledged him as he paid for a pack of gum, six bottles of strawberry Gatorade, and a big jug of water. Kenny guessed he wasn't the first person to come dragging in at 6am, reeking of booze, caked with vomit and looking like absolute shit.

"Top of the morning to you." Kenny muttered as she dumped his change on the counter. The woman, in her late forties and severely overweight, simply grunted in response.

Kenny trudged back to his car, opened up the jug of water and dumped half of it over his head, before swallowing down the other half. Then he gulped down three bottles of Gatorade, struggling not to retch it all up again. He climbed back behind the driver's seat feeling almost as bad as he had before he got out, if not a little worse. Kenny was halfway back to Bebe's house before he had to pull over again, his stomach roiling.

"Fuck...me," Kenny hissed as he retched out the door, his vomit a disgusting pink color, "Fuck me right in the ass."

Kenny's head hurt so badly he thought he was going to black out again. His joints felt _inflamed_ , and Kenny realized (with a small snort of amusement) that the worst hangover of his life was probably also the aftereffects of mild to moderate alcohol poisoning. Fuck, he was so sure Skeeter had stopped cutting his drinks with gasoline after the Health Department busted him that one time.

_Or maybe you're just a guy who's never known when enough is enough_ , a voice muttered somewhere deep inside. _You pathetic man-child._

"Fuck you, I do what I want." Kenny groaned, closing the car door.

Kenny reached into his glove compartment and rooted around until he found an old plastic baggie. Inside was a half-gram of cocaine, maybe less. He couldn't even remember who had given it to him, but it had been sitting in his glove compartment for _months_ , one of those things that he'd see and go, "Shit, I should throw that away," before completely forgetting about it time and time again. Kenny had tried coke once or twice, ages ago, before he was Mysterion. He hadn't really liked the hyperactive feeling it gave him. When Kenny got high he did it because he wanted to mellow out, not to feel as if he could run the Boston Marathon in twenty minutes. Still, it was just the thing he needed right now.

Kenny snorted up on the back of a Guns N' Roses CD and waited. It wasn't long before he was feeling alert, his aching joints forgotten, his head clearing. Kenny knew it was only a temporary fix, and in an hour he'd be _completely_ fucked up, but hey, he was alert enough now to face Tweek and possibly Bebe. Then he could shower, eat something, and sleep for the next twelve hours. _I'll be right as rain, yep._

Kenny checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, smoothed back his hair, popped a stick of gum and drove the rest of the way to Bebe's place.

He didn't see Bebe's car in her driveway. _Good_. Kenny strolled up the walkway, hoping Tweek wouldn't be in a bad mood, and unlocked the door. He stepped inside Bebe's house with a sigh, tucked his keys into his pocket, and took a step toward the living room.

"Tweek?" Kenny called, "I'm back. Hey, if you changed your mind, I'm totally still down to fuck —"

Someone suddenly bowled into him.

"Fuck!" Kenny cried, startled, as he was nearly thrown right off his feet.

A blond-haired kid had just crashed into him, and not just any blond-haired kid, but _Butters_. Kenny gazed down at him, astonished. Somehow, he'd completely forgotten about the boy. _Holy shit, he's awake_. Kenny was utterly unprepared for this, to say the least. The bruises that had marred Butters's fair skin were gone, and he didn't appear to be in any pain, so Kenny could only assume that he'd healed himself. His eyes were as _gorgeous_ as ever — even more so now that they were alert and undistracted — and Kenny couldn't help but notice how fucking _adorable_ Butters was, with something not unlike arousal.

Kenny was so busy staring, it took him a moment to realize that Butters was shaking him, all while yelling furiously.

"Where were ya? Where the fuck _were_ ya?!" Butters shouted, shaking him harder, his voice tinged with raw panic, "I thought you were supposed to be a _superhero_! Why did you let this happen?!"

_What?_ Kenny tried to detach himself from Butters's grasp, but the kid held on with all the ferocity of a pit bull, his eyes hurling daggers.

"Please...stop...shaking me." Kenny said dryly. Butters ignored him.

"Tweek is probably hurt real bad because of you!"

_Tweek?_ Kenny frowned, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't you know?! Don't you even fuckin' _care_?!" Butters cried, tearing himself away from Kenny, as if he found touching him repulsive. Butters fumbled in his pocket and hurled a small device at him. It hit Kenny square in the chest and fell harmlessly to the floor, but Kenny felt as if Butters had just thrown a brick at him.

_Oh, no. No, no, no._

"What happened?" Kenny demanded, his voice rising. "What did he do?"

The look Butters gave him was filled with rage and disappointment. "I thought...I thought you were so cool," Butters whispered, "but you're not a superhero. You're jus' a fuckin' _fraud_!"

Kenny crossed the room and grabbed Butters by the arm before he could stop himself, trembling. The boy just glared at him, completely unafraid.

"What. _Happened_?" Kenny asked again, every word low and infuriated.

The door banged open behind them and Bebe flew in, looking absolutely terrified.

"Kenny?!" Bebe cried, stopping short, her pale green eyes wide. "You're...here? But I thought...I thought you'd been captured…"

Kenny closed his eyes and let dread wash over him. "No," he muttered, "tell me what happened. Someone. _Please_."


	8. Chapter 8

**6.**

"Join the club, fella. You're jus' one more person w-who doesn't give a fuck about me. I've kinda come to expect it."

**~ Butters Stotch.**

* * *

There was conversation going on all around him, but Tweek couldn't make out what anyone was saying over the abysmal pounding in his head. He had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten here, and when Tweek tried to open his eyes, there was only darkness and discomfort.

_Nghh…_

Tweek was vaguely aware of the fact that someone had placed something over his head, which probably explained why he was having a little trouble breathing. The voices swam in and out, as if someone was playing with the volume on a radio. Tweek tried to concentrate, tried to make sense of what he was hearing, but his head felt as if a demon was trying to drill a hole in his skull through his eye sockets. Quite frankly, Tweek was fighting a battle against nausea and unconsciousness, and _losing_.

"...not him," a deep voice said in a low monotone.

"How do you know?" A woman's voice replied, seductive but cruel.

"This is _not_ Mysterion. This is his accomplice. The one I described earlier."

"Oh? Your blond-haired mystery man?" Tweek heard the sound of a woman's laughter. "Gosh, you must be so _happy_ right now, sexy. Are you going to pop a boner?"

"...shut your fucking mouth, Red."

More voices, more conversation. None of it made the slightest impression on him. Then Tweek felt someone lay a hand on his shoulder, and give an order in a harsh tone.

"Take his GPS and give it to the reject."

* * *

Bebe had never liked Tweek.

She could remember seeing him in the halls of their old public high school sometimes, and he was always either by himself, or hanging out with Clyde Donovan. Clyde was stocky, good-looking, and he played for the football team, but he'd always been the sort of nice, easygoing guy who would befriend _anyone_ , no matter how weird they were. It was not unusual at all to see Clyde flirting with all the pretty girls or chopping it up with the rest of the dumb jocks between classes, only to sit at a table with various social rejects at lunch. Clyde was just that kind of dude. He thought _everyone_ was cool, and was too dumb to believe otherwise.

Out of all the social rejects Clyde hung out with, Tweek was the worst. He easily topped Clyde by almost a foot, but Clyde was always sticking up for him, acting as a shield against the almost-constant taunting and bullying. Bebe had always felt sorry for the guy. Tweek was so tall you couldn't help but notice him, but he didn't carry that height gracefully at all. He sort of reminded Bebe of an overgrown Chihuahua, shaking and shivering for no reason at all. Tweek always seemed to be trying to _draw_ into himself, as if he could somehow make himself less noticeable if he hung his head and stooped his bony shoulders.

But of course, that didn't work. Tweek's strange behavior and quiet, anxious disposition only made him a target for both physical and verbal abuse. Clyde eventually put a stop to all that, though. He made it crystal-clear that if anyone messed with Tweek, they had to tangle with _him_. Clyde was a five-foot-six, kind of chubby class clown, so he didn't exactly strike fear in hearts, but he could be downright _scary_ if you made him angry enough, or fucked with his friends. And Tweek was his friend. Maybe even his _best_ friend. No one, including herself, ever understood why.

Clyde may have put a stop to Tweek getting bullied, but he couldn't stop what people said about him. Tweek was weird — not even the good kind of weird, just the _weird_ kind of weird — and for the most part, a loner. By the rules of high school, that automatically made him a crazy pariah. People used to say that Tweek would flip out and bring a gun to school one day. It was awful, but she wouldn't have been surprised if he had. Bebe really didn't know if Tweek was as crazy as everyone said he was, but she wasn't about to take any chances. High school was horrible enough without getting mixed up with _crazies_. When Bebe caught Tweek glancing at her every once in a while, his stunningly pretty green eyes somehow sad, she'd always ignored him, pretending not to notice. At graduation, Tweek didn't even bother to show.

That was the last she'd heard of him, for a few years at least. Until Bebe turned on the TV one day, and watched as Tweek Bros. Coffeehouse burned to the ground with the entire family inside. Only Tweek survived the blaze. Officially, it was called an accident, a terrible tragedy, but this was a small town, and in small towns, people talked.

_Tweek killed his parents and started that fire to cover it up. How much do you wanna bet?_

It was always the same thing. _How much do you wanna bet?_ As if people's lives were roulette tables, and the biggest payouts went to those who could guess the most tragic outcomes without feeling an ounce of sympathy.

Bebe didn't know what to believe. She would have liked to think that Tweek would never have been capable of such an atrocity, but…

_He's crazy. Maybe even crazy enough to commit murder._

Bebe had never been a big fan of Facebook, but she logged on soon after the fire, just to see what her former classmates were saying. Clyde was the only person who'd seemed even remotely concerned. He couldn't stop posting about it.

****_fuck no why did this happen?!_  
shit the doctors won't let me see him i'm his FRIEND this is BULLSHIT!  
tweek has second and third degree burns...fuck i'm gonna cry…  
keep tweek in ur prayers guys :(

Everyone else simply shrugged and went on with their lives. And Tweek, well...he disappeared, taking the truth of what really happened that warm summer evening with him. The general consensus was that he'd skipped town, and as Skeeter would say, _good riddance_. Bebe went on with her life, too. That's just how these things go.

So imagine Bebe's surprise when, just two years later — long enough for her to forget all about Tweek and that horrible fire — he popped back into her life. It wasn't long after she'd been intimate with Kenny the first time, and he'd come to trust her with some of his secrets. Bebe was _ridiculously_ in love and looking for any excuse to spend time with Kenny, so she asked him to help her move out of the cheap apartment she'd been staying in at the time. Kenny happily obliged, but he didn't show up alone.

"Hey," Kenny said, gesturing to the tall blond man looming behind him. "This _moody_ sack of shit is my friend, Tweek. He's going to help me move your stuff. The only time I'm comfortable with throwing my back out is when I'm fucking someone."

Kenny had no idea Bebe and Tweek were already acquainted...sort of. Tweek had been dressed in these baggy dark clothes, a hood pulled up over his wild silvery hair, looking like a cross between a hipster and a homeless person. Bebe could clearly remember how grim Tweek's expression had been. He wasn't just _moody_ , he was _furious_. It was pretty obvious that Kenny had dragged him here against his will, and there was a personal thundercloud swirling around his head.

"N-nice to meet you…" Bebe had stammered, too shocked to think of anything else.

" _Ngh_ , fuck. Can we hurry this up?" Tweek grumbled without once looking at her, the epitome of a rude and sulky child. When Kenny nudged him in the ribs, irritated, Tweek finally deigned to give her his attention.

"...Bebe?" Tweek muttered, his eyes widening in recognition.

"Whoa, you two know each other?" Kenny had asked, smiling that charming smile of his.

"I…" Bebe began, at a loss for words. Tweek fidgeted once and shook his head.

"No," Tweek muttered again, glancing away from the questions in her eyes. "Not really."

It didn't take Tweek and Kenny that long to move her things. It wasn't like she had a ton of furniture to begin with. Bebe kept her eye on Tweek the entire time, part unnerved and part fascinated. He had...changed. She had no idea where he'd gone or what he'd been doing since the so-called accident that had killed his parents, but the weakling who had once been a target for every bully within a five-mile radius was nowhere in sight. Tweek was still much too jittery for her liking, but he moved with grace now. There was an aura of confidence about him that hadn't been there before.

Tweek _owned_ his height.

The second they finished moving her stuff, Tweek took off. He left without a word, abandoning a shouting Kenny by the side of her rented U-Haul. Bebe couldn't say she was sad to see him go. The air had been crackling with unspoken tension, despite Kenny's pained attempts to be cheerful. She had no idea what was going on. Then again, she rarely did when it came to Kenny.

"Asshole," Kenny muttered to himself after Tweek was gone, his dark blue eyes narrowed in aggravation, "I _really_ don't give a shit about your fucking attitude, Tweek! If you think I'm going to let you give up after everything we've been through…"

"What...was that about?" Bebe had asked, frowning. Kenny sighed.

"My friend," Kenny replied glumly, "has been depressed, and it's gotten really bad lately. I dragged him here because I didn't want to leave him alone. He's a nice guy, I promise."

"Tweek _Tweak_ , right?" Bebe asked, folding her arms protectively across her bosom.

"Yeah. So, you two _do_ know each other?" Kenny said, turning to her with a weary smile. Bebe shook her head, still frowning.

"We went to the same high school, but that's _it_!" Bebe snapped, feeling somehow defensive, as if Kenny had just associated her with a rapist or...a _murderer_. "Kenny, why the hell are you hanging out with a guy like that? Don't you know he killed his _parents_?"

The look Kenny had given her was incredulous at first, then angry. "Tweek didn't kill his parents, Bebe. Where the fuck did you hear something like that?"

"I…h-he..." Bebe had stammered, put off by Kenny's sharp tone. He had never spoken to her like that before. "That's what _everyone_ says, Kenny!"

"Everyone?" Kenny replied, arching a brow. "Bebe...really? After all the shit _your_ parents put you through? I honestly thought you'd be the _last_ person to make snap judgements about people."

Bebe flushed, her lips thinning, but Kenny walked away before she could frame a response. Not that she would have known what to say, had he given her the opportunity. Bebe had never claimed to be an angel, and _nobody_ , no matter how good they were, liked to be called out on their shit.

Looking back on it, that brief conversation was probably her and Kenny's first argument. Bebe never brought up Tweek again, never asked how they'd met. She ignored her curiosity about them. Maybe that was her petty way of getting back at Kenny for never being completely honest with her. If he could play it cool, then so could she, damn it!

Looking at Kenny now, though, Bebe really wished she'd just swallowed her pride and asked. Kenny had crumpled on her couch, staring at his hands with a vacant look in his dark blue eyes and an expression of utter devastation on his face. Bebe nibbled on her bottom lip, feeling miserable for him. Despite their issues, Bebe loved truly loved this man, and seeing Kenny like this broke her heart.

"Kenny…" Bebe whispered, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Oh baby, I'm so sorry…"

The kid Kenny had rescued the night before — Leopold 'Butters' Stotch — was less than impressed. He hadn't once stopped glaring at Kenny, even after Bebe filled him in on the situation. His aquamarine eyes were narrowed and his mouth was drawn in a frustrated pout that made him look years younger than he actually was. Butters's aggravation was so intense it was almost palpable, but Kenny didn't seem to notice him at all. He didn't even seem to notice Bebe. It was as if he had retreated to his own personal hell.

"Kenny?" Bebe murmured, kneeling down before him. She looked into his face with loving concern, noting his messy blond hair, bloodshot eyes, and the questionable stains on his parka. Kenny reeked of booze, so much so that Bebe wrinkled her nose. _Oh God, Kenny…_

Bebe had never seen him so messed up. The man sitting before her was so very different from the smooth and sexy sweet-talker she was used to, and it scared her. Bebe swallowed and nudged Kenny's shoulder a little, trying to shake him out of his stupor, and that's when Butters finally lost his temper.

"Jesus fuckin' _hamburgers_!" Butters shouted, pushing Bebe brusquely out of the way. Butters seized Kenny by the collar of his shirt, trembling with rage. Kenny looked up, startled.

"Snap outta it, you _jerk_!" Butters snarled, before he punched Kenny in the face. Bebe's mouth fell open in shock.

Kenny hissed in pain, raising a hand to his throbbing nose. He stared at Butters with wide eyes as the small blond boy loomed over him, breathing hard. Kenny couldn't believe Butters had actually _hit_ him. For a few moments at least, surprise (and a twinge of respect) overshadowed his anger.

" _Tweek_ is the one you should be feelin' sorry for!" Butters cried, impassioned. "You messed up, now fix it! _Do_ somethin'! Ain't he your friend?"

"I _am_ going to do something," Kenny shot back, quickly becoming annoyed. "I don't fucking need you to tell me, _Buttercup_."

"Really?" Butters replied, his left eye twitching at the unwanted nickname. "Is _this_ what you call bein' productive? Lettin' your girlfriend _coddle_ you while you sit on your ass?!"

_I'm not his girlfriend...not really_ , Bebe thought, frowning.

"Jesus Christ, _shut the fuck up_!" Kenny growled, leaping off the couch. Butters planted his hands on his hips, puffing up like a small, angry dog.

" _You_ shut up, you stinkin' _drunk_!" Butters roared back, completely unaffected by the fact that Kenny was twice as big as he was.

_The hell?_ Bebe thought, finally recovering from her shock. She shook her head and stepped between Kenny and Butters before they could go for each other's throats, like a teacher breaking up a schoolyard fight.

"Kenny, you're acting like a goddamn three-year-old," Bebe said sternly, pinning Kenny in place with her glare, "you know what happened. Now what are you going to do about it?"

Her directness seemed to knock some sense into him. Kenny straightened up, rubbed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

"Okay," he muttered. "Okay. I'm going to fucking rescue him. _That's_ what I'm going to do."

Butters smiled a little at this, but Bebe couldn't help feeling a flutter of panic, like a nest of moths had been trapped in her chest. She knew better than to try to talk Kenny out of this, though, no matter how dangerous it was. Bebe watched anxiously as Kenny retrieved the device Butters had thrown at him from the floor, and then held it up to his face, squinting.

"Is that a _Tamagotchi_?" Bebe asked, instantly recognizing a piece of her childhood.

"Yeah," Kenny muttered, carefully opening the pink plastic case, "Tweek is the most ridiculous nineties kid I have ever met."

Inside the Tamagotchi was a SIM card. Kenny immediately pulled out his phone and swapped it in, punching buttons while Butters and Bebe waited for an explanation. After a few minutes of this, Bebe threw her hands up, exasperated.

"Kenny, please talk to us, babe," Bebe pleads. Kenny sighed, holding up his phone.

"Tweek is a paranoid bastard who always carries a mini-GPS, just in case," Kenny said. "Program it to a SIM card, and it automatically texts me his location as a set of coordinates every thirty minutes."

"Kenny, I know how this works, I'm not _completely_ clueless," Bebe admonished, while Butters blinked, looking completely clueless. "So where is he?"

"According to this? A warehouse right outside of town."

"Warehouse?" Butters piped up, knocking his knuckles together. "Gee, that doesn't sound like Craig at all…"

"What do you mean?" Kenny demanded.

"Jus'..." Butters bit his lip. "Craig is a real methodical guy. He shoulda taken Tweek to a s-secure location, not some old warehouse. Unless…"

"He did it on purpose," Kenny muttered.

"Which means it's a trap." Bebe said, raising a hand to her throat in fear.

"Doesn't matter. I'm getting him back," Kenny replied curtly, shoving his phone back into his pocket. He felt like there was a fire in his veins, and he wasn't sure if it was due to the adrenaline or the cocaine. Kenny's heart was pounding just a little too hard and too fast, and his mind was racing, one bad thought after another. _I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up. I'm so fucking sorry, buddy. I promise, I'll rescue you._

"Do you have a plan?" Bebe asked, worry evident in her pale green eyes.

"Plan?" Kenny snorted. "Yeah, I have a plan. Bust in there and _fuck shit up_. It's foolproof."

"Kenny…"

"Are they going to torture him?" Kenny asked, directing the question at Butters. Butters shrugged his small shoulders, as if torture was something he was used to. Who knows, perhaps it was.

"Maybe," Butters replied candidly. "If they think he knows somethin', o-or Tweek is bein' uncooperative."

"Tweek? _Uncooperative_?" Kenny laughed hollowly, mirthlessly. "Fuck...uncooperative may as well be Tweek's middle name."

"Torture ain't really Craig's style," Butters said, his voice low. "Red is a different story, b-but I really don't think they'll torture him. There's no point. By now they probably know he's not the real Mysterion. My guess is, they're gonna use Tweek as bait to set a trap for you." Butters paused for a moment, looking deeply uncomfortable, before he added softly, "And me."

"Kenny, I know you're worried about Tweek, but it would be stupid to go in unprepared." Bebe said, struggling to keep up a brave front. "Look, I know a guy who can set you up with some firepower."

"You do?" Kenny said, studying Bebe curiously. "How?"

"I'm a _stripper_ , Kenny. In my line of work, you get to know all kinds of people." Bebe said, rolling her eyes.

Kenny considered this for a moment, rubbing his chin. The whole thing reeked of a bloody setup, but there was no way in hell he was going to sit here and do nothing. _Craig knows this._ Kenny glanced down at his upturned duffel bag with his meager supply of weapons. He had one smoke bomb left, a handful of ninja stars, his nightstick, his taser and the 9mm Tweek had given him. Just looking at it made his stomach knot up. Kenny wasn't even that great of a shot, but when he tried to tell Tweek this, his partner simply rolled his eyes.

_Do what I did and fucking practice, man!_

Craig would be waiting for him. A little extra firepower wouldn't hurt.

"Alright," Kenny said, nodding. "What's his name?"

"Kevin Stoley. He's an engineer. Well...engineering student. Bit of an oddball, but a nice guy," Bebe said, shrugging. She smiled and added gently, "Not that I know any guys who _aren't_ oddballs."

_Kevin Stoley._ "What's his address?"

"I'll drive you."

Kenny frowned, shaking his head. "Bebe, _no_. Just tell me his address, I'll go myself."

Bebe narrowed her eyes. "I'm helping," she said, in a firm tone.

_Fuck_! Kenny grit his teeth, feeling the headache that had plagued him earlier starting to come back full-force. He knew Bebe was only insisting on helping because she was worried about him, but Kenny didn't want her getting any more involved in this than she already was. He had enough to think about without having to keep an eye on her, too. There was no doubt in Kenny's mind that this shit was going to be dangerous, possibly even life-threatening, and the last thing he wanted was to put even _more_ people he cared about in harm's way. If he died, he got a do-over. Bebe had no such second chances.

Kenny took a very deep breath, struggling to remain calm. "You've already helped enough, beautiful. I _really_ don't have time to fucking babysit."

Bebe's eyes flashed dangerously, and she planted her hands on those sexy hips of hers. "Do I look like a fucking _baby_ to you? I can take care of _myself_ , Kenny. And in case you haven't noticed, you need all the help you can get right now!"

"I don't —!"

"Um, I'm helping too," Butters interrupted , ignoring Kenny's incredulous stare. "I feel partly responsible for what happened. It's _me_ they really want, not Tweek. Not even you. We'll deal with Craig once an' for all, okay? An' if Tweek is hurt, I can heal him. B-but, after this...I'm _outta_ here."

Kenny blinked, Butters's words settling into his brain like a viscous slime. Butters was planning on leaving. Kenny didn't know why he suddenly felt so disappointed. After all, it was probably better for everyone involved if he simply left. Kenny's life had been nothing but one complication after another ever since he'd rescued the damn kid. He should have been _expecting_ this, but all Kenny could really feel was the same disappointment he'd felt when Tweek told him he couldn't keep adopting people like stray cats, that he had to take Butters to the nearest crisis shelter, that he shouldn't get so _involved_.

In his heart of hearts, he knew Tweek was only trying to look out for him. There were some professions — like being a doctor — where you had to put a wall between yourself and the people you were trying to help, between the _situation_ , for your own fucking sanity. Being a superhero was one of those professions. Just when he thought he'd seen everything, Kenny would stumble across some shit that would keep him awake at night, jonesing for a fix. But no matter how long he'd been doing this, Kenny just couldn't be impersonal about it. He couldn't help wanting to be the _personal Jesus —_ as Tweek put it — for the people he helped. Kenny cared too much, he always had. Maybe he couldn't save everyone, maybe it was pointless to waste so much energy on someone who hadn't even _wanted_ his help in the first place, but…

_I still want to help you. I want to know more about you. Who the fuck are you, Butters? WHAT are you? Maybe I'm so interested because I never thought I'd meet someone who had a crazy ability like me. And yeah, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm kiiind of a pervert and you're REALLY fucking cute. Shit, I never even properly introduced myself. I'm Kenny McCormick, Kenneth if you're nasty, and I'm not always a stinking drunk, I swear._

Kenny opened and closed his mouth a few times, but Butters was staring at him as if he was a bag of dog poop, and Bebe was watching with slightly raised eyebrows, keenly observant. Even if she hadn't been there, Kenny got the sinking feeling that it was probably a little too late to make amends.

"Fine," Kenny muttered, glancing away from Butters's cool aquamarine eyes. "You can do whatever the hell you want, Butters. I'm not going to stop you."

"You _couldn't_ stop me." Butters shot back. "High as you are, I'm a little s-surprised you're still standin'."

" _Christ_ , are you always such a fucking asshole?" Kenny hissed. Even _he_ had his limits, and Butters's attacks had put him on the defensive. Butters rolled his eyes, but that only reminded Kenny of how _pretty_ they were, which only made him even more annoyed.

"Only to people who deserve it," Butters replied dryly.

Ouch.

"Leave _any_ time you feel like it. I really won't give a fuck!" Kenny shouted. He knew he probably sounded completely juvenile, but he just couldn't seem to help himself. Kenny was finding it impossible to ignore him. Considering the circumstances, Butters was just one more distraction he absolutely did _not_ need. Kenny expected Butters to roll his eyes again, or maybe toss out another smart-ass comment, but to his surprise Butters simply knocked his knuckles together, looking gloomy.

"Join the club, fella." Butters muttered. "You're jus' one more person w-who doesn't give a fuck about me. I've kinda come to expect it."

Double ouch.

"Knock it off you two," Bebe snapped, once again having to take control of the situation. "Kenny, it is what it is. Are you ready?"

"Yeah," Kenny mumbled, with one last lingering glance at Butters. "Look, if you two want to help, then _fine_. Just don't get in my way. Let's go."

Kenny reached into his parka for his car keys, but Bebe nimbly plucked them right out of his hands.

"I _said_ I'm driving," Bebe clipped, when Kenny glared at her. "There's no way in hell we're taking that death-trap you call a car. I'm honestly shocked you haven't been pulled over yet. Besides," Bebe gave him a shrewd look. "You're not looking too good right now, Kenny."

He wasn't feeling too good either, but that probably went without saying. Kenny had no choice but to follow Bebe out to her car, snatching up his duffel bag on the way out, with Butters trailing silently behind them. He told himself he wouldn't do it, but Kenny found himself glancing back at Butters every once in a while, stealing glimpses of his face like a bandit hungry for expressions instead of jewels. But Butters's face remained blank, and he stared out the window of Bebe's car without acknowledging Kenny's presence at all.

* * *

Wendy had never liked Hell's Pass Hospital, and it wasn't solely because of the rather unfortunate name. She just wasn't a fan of hospitals, _period_.

When Wendy was just a little girl, her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Thankfully, Mrs. Testaburger had been in remission for years, but for a while there, Wendy's life had been nothing but one long series of trips back and forth to the hospital as her mother underwent chemo treatments. It wasn't long before Wendy began to associate hospitals with fear, with uncertainty, with holding her mother as she cried over the hair loss, wondering if the cancer was going to take her. Those feelings had persisted well into her adulthood. Being in a hospital now made Wendy feel anxious and uncomfortable, and Hell's Pass was the worst. Just breathing in the air here gave her a persistent feeling of dread, as if the whole place was going to fall down around her, _crushing_ her.

Wendy would have loved to be anywhere but here, but she wanted to be there when Cartman came out of surgery.

Wendy sighed wearily, trudging back to the waiting room with a cup of watered-down hot chocolate in her hand. Every move she made seemed to take her twice as long as usual, as if she was walking underwater. The adrenaline had finally seeped out of her system, leaving her feeling weak and exhausted. Stan had insisted she go home. He'd even offered to let her crash at his place, but Wendy refused. Realizing how adamant she was about this, Stan sighed and told her he'd wait in the car.

"Stan," Wendy had whispered, shivering despite the jacket he'd let her borrow, "I'll just take a taxi home. You don't have to do this."

"I know," Stan said, smiling down at her. "But I _want_ to, Wendy."

" _Stan_." Wendy said firmly, trying to be brave, trying to keep up her tough, independent front, even though the night's events had left her drained and shaken, "Go home. I'll be _fine_!"

Stan simply smiled at her, gentle and sweet. Seeing that smile again after so long made tears spring to her eyes, quite unexpectedly. Suddenly, Wendy couldn't hold back her sobs. She'd buried her face in her hands, feeling partly embarrassed and partly surprised. Why the hell was she crying _now_? She hadn't cried when Red was terrorizing her. Hell, she hadn't even cried when the police interrogated her for nearly two hours afterward, drilling Wendy for information she simply did not have. Wendy had never been one to crack under pressure. She _excelled_ in the face of hardship, everyone always said...and yet Stan's smile had undone her in one stroke. Maybe it was all the love she instantly recognized in it. Wendy hadn't been expecting that. You would think, after a broken engagement and a year's worth of frosty separation, that Stan wouldn't feel a thing for her anymore.

God...it had been so long since anyone had looked at her with anything even remotely resembling affection.

"Wendy," Stan had murmured, pulling her into his arms. "You don't always, like. Have to act so tough, y'know? You can lean on someone, sometimes. You can lean on me. That doesn't make you weak."

Wendy had shuddered, breathing in Stan's scent. He smelled of leather and peppermint and dog hair. Stan was so devastated when he lost Sparky he swore he'd never get another dog, but he eventually broke down and adopted a huge German Shepherd he jokingly named Sylvester Stallone. Sly for short. Wendy swallowed and nodded, blushing a little when Stan kissed her tear-stained cheek.

"Go do what you gotta do, Wen," Stan said calmly. "I'll be right outside."

Wendy sighed as she sipped her hot chocolate, grimacing a little at the taste. Stan hadn't changed one bit — he was still a mother hen. Wendy shook her head, and then pulled out her phone, checking the time. Six o'clock in the morning. It wouldn't be too much longer now. A nurse had informed her that Cartman's surgery had gone off without a hitch, and it would be okay to see him soon. _Cartman..._

Cartman had saved her life. Maybe he'd done it without really meaning to, but he'd saved her life all the same. Wendy didn't know how to feel about that. She had always _detested_ him. Cartman was mean, hateful, manipulative, bigoted, vindictive...the list went on and on. There was absolutely nothing about him to like. He seemed to take genuine pleasure out of intimidating, bullying, and generally being as unpleasant to people as he could be.

Wendy had always wondered why Cartman did that, why he put up those spiky, poison-tipped barbed wire walls around himself. The way she saw it, there _had_ to be a reason. Surely, no one was this horrible just for the heck of it! But the more she worked with him, the more Wendy became convinced that maybe that really _was_ just Cartman's personality. Cartman had been hell-bent on making her time at the South Park Gazette a living nightmare from the moment they'd been introduced. Mr. Garrison had even warned her about him...sort of.

"Eric Cartman is a fat piece of shit," Herbert Garrison bluntly informed her, in that dry voice of his. "But he's a fat, _smart_ piece of shit, so I have no choice but to keep him around. Just so you know, I've been trying to get another news anchor in here for six months. Every person I've hired has never lasted more than a week. I'm pretty sure Cartman made the last weather girl hang herself, and would like to do the same to Gary, only he's too _nice_ to take the hint. If you do better than them, I'll be fucking impressed."

Wendy, being the stubborn overachiever that she was, had taken that as a challenge. Not to say that Cartman didn't make her cry, because he did. Or make her so stark raving furious she sometimes contemplated bringing a shovel to work so she could bash him over the head with it, because he did that too. But she never showed her tears where Cartman could see them. She would _never_ give him the satisfaction. Cartman was a bully, and the only way to deal with bullies was to stand up to them. So Wendy did that, time and time again. And she honestly came to enjoy the look of _surprise_ on his face, the subtle widening of his big brown eyes, whenever she refused to take his abuse, whenever she went head-to-head and toe-to-toe with him without any fear.

Their relationship was crash and burn, fire and gasoline, lightning and thunder. Gleefully tearing each other apart and slinking away to lick the wounds, only to come back and do it all over again. Wendy honestly thought Cartman would have been _glad_ to see her dead.

_Would I have done the same thing for him?_

Wendy bit her lip, tugging Stan's leather jacket closer around herself. The answer was...no. Take a bullet for Cartman? The thought was almost laughable...but Cartman had taken a bullet for _her_. _Why?_ Wendy thought angrily, so lost in her own head she didn't notice a weary brown-haired woman tiptoeing toward her. _Why the fuck did you do that, Cartman? Because of that, I'm sitting here waiting for the doctors to say it's okay to visit you. I have no fucking idea what's going on anymore. And Mysterion? I can't decide if I should be angry he didn't show up sooner, or grateful that he came when he did. Where is he now? What did those people want with him...?_

"Excuse me...sweetie?"

Wendy glanced up, blinking. The woman standing before her was probably in her late forties or early fifties, but there was something decidedly youthful in the way she carried herself. She had a petite build and a very pretty face framed by dark brown hair, pulled back into a matronly bun. Her eyes were brown too, and kindly, but a little red, as if she'd been crying. Wendy quickly tucked her phone away and smiled.

"Hello," she greeted, nodding at the woman. "Can I help you with anything?"

"Yes," the woman said, her lips lifting in a tremulous smile, "I was just wondering...what time is it?"

"Oh! Um —" Wendy checked her phone again. "Six-thirty."

"Thank you, sweetie," the woman mumbled, sinking tiredly into a chair across from Wendy.

"You're welcome," Wendy replied, smiling again. They were both silent for a moment, Wendy shifting uncomfortably in her seat, while the woman studied her hands sadly. Finally, Wendy licked her lips and murmured, "Um...are you waiting for someone? If that's not too much to ask…"

"Oh…" The woman looked up and smiled that tremulous little smile again, as if she was struggling not to cry. "My son. I've...been pacing the ICU for hours. The doctors finally told me to come down here and wait."

"I'm sorry," Wendy said gently, glad she had someone to talk to. "Who's your son?"

"Eric," the woman murmured. "Eric Cartman. He was shot last night during the Gazette hijacking."

_What?_ Wendy usually had a lot more tact than this, but she was so surprised her mouth fell open. _This woman is Eric's mother?_

"I was there," Wendy blurted, earning herself a startled glance. "With Eric, I mean. I work for the Gazette."

"You were?" Cartman's mother's eyes went wide in her pretty face, and her lips began to tremble. To Wendy's surprise, the woman got up and pulled her into a fierce hug, ignoring her surprised gasp.

"Oh sweetie, that's _awful_! I'm so glad you're okay!"

"M-me too," Wendy murmured, returning the hug awkwardly, but gratefully. Cartman's mother leaned away, sniffling.

"I had no idea what was going on," she admitted, shaking her head. "I don't watch much TV these days, and I'm usually in bed by nine. I got a call from the police a few hours ago, and raced over here. My name is Liane," Liane introduced herself with a nod and another sweet smile. "Liane Cartman."

"I'm Wendy. Wendy Testaburger." Wendy said, taking an instant liking to Liane. It was bizarre, how someone as abrasive as Cartman could have such a seemingly nice lady for a mother. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Cartman. I'm so sorry about Eric."

"Oh...thank you, sweetie. Please, just call me Liane. Ah...aren't you a news anchor?"

When Wendy nodded, Liane brightened a bit. "You know, I — I thought you looked a little familiar," she admitted, "but I was afraid to ask. Do you...do you think my snookums will be okay?"

"I'm sure he will." Wendy said, giggling internally at Liane's nickname for her son. "Cartman... _Eric_ , he's too stubborn to let something like this get him down for long."

"You think so?" Liane exhaled softly, her shoulders slumping. "Eric always was such a willful boy. I've just been so _worried_...you really are too kind."

"You're welcome…" Wendy mutters, glancing away, feeling guilty somehow.

"Are _you_ here to see anyone, dear?"

"Actually," Wendy says, fidgeting a little, "I was...hoping to see Eric."

Liane's eyes widen, and her mouth forms a little 'o' of surprise, before she smiles her biggest and brightest smile yet. "R-really?" Liane asked, making Wendy fidget even more.

"I...yes." Wendy replied, hoping Liane wouldn't get the wrong idea. It wasn't as if she was visiting Cartman because she _cared_ for him now. Wendy was only doing this because she felt strangely obligated, as if Cartman had done her a solid, and now _she_ had to do _him_ a solid by visiting him in the hospital. Put in that light, it seemed completely callous of her, but it was only the truth. One selfless act didn't exactly make up for a lifetime of being a horrible individual, and Wendy wasn't entirely convinced that Cartman's heroics — if they could indeed be called that — hadn't been purely accidental. But Liane was gazing up at her as if she'd just made a new friend, and Wendy wasn't quite heartless enough to burst her bubble.

_Darn it._

"...Mrs. Cartman?"

They both turned at the unfamiliar voice. Standing in the doorway of the waiting room was a doctor clad in blue scrubs, holding a clipboard. Liane raised a trembling hand to her throat, hope shining in her big brown eyes.

"Yes? Is he...can I see him? Is he okay?" Liane asked, all in a rush.

"He's fine," the doctor replied. "He's in stable condition. Your son isn't quite responsive yet, but it's perfectly okay to visit him now."

"Thank goodness," Liane breathed, tugging Wendy by the hand. "Please, take me to him."

Hospital rooms had always reminded Wendy of prison cells, and Cartman's room was no different. Wendy cautiously eased herself down into a seat beside his bed, wondering why she was here. She felt fraudulent and out-of-place, particularly when Liane leaned over her son's bed to place a kiss on his brow.

Wendy studied Cartman's sleeping face with a strange feeling of unreality washing over her. Everything about Cartman was big, loud and in-your-face, from his body to his exceedingly foul mouth, but he looked tiny lying there somehow. Cartman was dressed in a drab hospital gown and hooked up to a heart monitor. Wendy knew it was only a standard precaution, especially after undergoing such a major surgery, but the sound the heart monitor made, that steady _beep...beep...beep…,_ made her want to put her hands over her ears. It was wrong. It was _all_ wrong. This wasn't the Cartman she knew. Cartman was a destructive force of nature who fucked with her daily, just to get a reaction. And now…

_He looks so vulnerable._

Wendy swallowed down the lump that had formed in her throat, watching as Liane gently squeezed her son's fingers. Liane looked calm but sad, her shoulders slumped, her eyes downcast.

"You know," Liane murmured, "this is the first time I've seen my son in nearly five years. Eric moved out of the house when he was just seventeen, and he never came back. Not once. I used to call him two or three times a week while he was at Denver University, but he refused to return my calls. When I begged him to come home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, he called me a bitch and told me to stop contacting him. I made my poopykins all his favorite dishes, too."

Liane laughed softly, mirthlessly. "I cried for days when I had to throw it all away."

Wendy stared at Liane, opening and closing her mouth, at a complete loss for words. Part of her wanted to stop this, let Liane know it was none of her business...but a bigger part was extremely curious. Wendy realized she didn't know _anything_ about Cartman. She never would have bothered to ask him about himself, and Cartman didn't bring up any personal details at all...perhaps with good reason.

"I suppose I...can't blame him," Liane continued, almost as if she was talking to herself. "I admit, I wasn't the best mother. I did a lot of horrible things when I was younger, things I'm not proud of. I didn't realize how badly it affected him. By the time I did, it was probably too late. Maybe this is too much to ask, but I want Eric to see that I'm _not_ the person I was back then. I want us to move forward..."

Liane sighed and tucked a lock of her dark brown hair behind her ear. "My snookums is good at a lot of things, sweetie. He's a very smart boy...but he was always _best_ at holding grudges."

"Mrs. Cartman...I..." Wendy began haltingly, wringing her hands in her lap. Liane glanced up, shaking her head.

"Oh...I'm sorry, sweetie. I didn't mean to dump all of this on you," Liane apologized. "I'm just glad Eric has someone who cares enough to visit him."

_I don't care,_ Wendy thought miserably. _I'm sorry Mrs. Cartman, but it's really not like that._

"Sweetie," Liane said, standing up, "I don't want to take up too much of your time...but do you mind staying with Eric? Just for a bit. I'm going to run downstairs and get some coffee."

"Of course. No problem at all." Wendy said, nodding amiably. After all, _she_ was sort of the reason why Cartman had been shot in the first place. It was the least she could do.

After Liane left the room, it was just Wendy, Cartman, and the _beeping_ of the heart monitor. Wendy ran her hands back through her silken hair, feeling completely exhausted, and then got up to stand beside the bed. She gazed down at Cartman's sleeping face, frowning a little.

"Why do you hate your mother, asshole?" Wendy demanded softly, as if Cartman could hear her. "She's _changed_ , you know. You won't even give her a chance. God, that's so typical of you!"

_I need to go home. I need to sleep._

Wendy started to turn away from the bed, but a soft noise made her glance back down, apprehensive. When she saw that Cartman had opened his eyes, Wendy nearly flew backward.

_Shit. Shitshitshit._

"Wendy?" Cartman muttered, his voice low and croaky, before he closed his eyes again. Wendy took a deep breath, trying to get a handle on her pounding heart. Cartman had fallen right back asleep. _I guess he's going to be slipping in and out of unconsciousness for a while._ It was only to be expected — the doctors had just removed a slug from Cartman's abdomen and stapled his stomach back together. Wendy couldn't help feeling deeply sympathetic for whoever had to take care of Cartman once the sedatives wore off. Cartman on a _good_ day was an unbearable pain in the ass. She couldn't even begin to imagine what he'd be like now.

"...Eyy," Cartman groaned suddenly, cracking his eyes open again. His gaze was cloudy and unfocused. "The fuck're...you still doing hyah, you dumb bitch...?"

Wendy rolled her eyes. Even sedated, Cartman was still a _jerk_.

"Don't worry, I'm _leaving_ ," Wendy grumbled to herself. She didn't even bother to get angry. Wendy was pretty sure Cartman was so drugged up he wouldn't remember this anyway. Cartman's eyes fluttered shut, but to her surprise, he continued to mutter to himself, his voice so low and slurred Wendy had to bend down a little to hear him.

"I don't...I don't think you're dumb...but you do some _really_ dumb shit, Wendy. Why are you...shouldn't you be fucking Mysterion? Are you so fucking bored…you'll take any anonymous cock…?"

Wendy stiffened, her eyes going wide. _He knows? How does he...that's impossible…_

"Stupid... _hippie_. Fuck you...for not respecting my authoritah...fuck you for being beautiful. Fuck you for...actually making me...like you."

Wendy slowly raised a hand to her mouth, so shocked she hardly dared to breathe.

"Sweetie?" Liane said, slipping back into the room with two paper cups of coffee. "I forgot to ask if you wanted some coffee, so I —"

"I — I'm sorry. I have to go," Wendy muttered, fleeing from the room, ignoring Liane's startled look.

Wendy ran from the ICU, back into the lobby and out into the parking lot. She didn't stop until she'd reached Stan's car, flushed and out of breath. Stan had pulled the seat back and was dozing with the heater running, but he jerked awake when Wendy jumped inside and slammed the door.

"Damn Wendy," Stan mumbled, yawning, "did you just rob a bank or something?"

"S-Stan, if it's okay with you, I'd _really_ like to go home right now," Wendy whispered, without looking up.

Stan yawned again and nodded. He didn't seem to notice how flustered she was. " 'Kay."

* * *

The South Park Police Department was in a strange state of disarray.

Clyde couldn't put a finger on exactly _why_ things felt so off. After all, the station had never been a shining example of professionalism. They were small-town cops, with small-town sensibilities. Many of the officers had been born and bred here, so they figured it was okay to let some things slide. Token had done much to whip this place into shape when he was promoted Chief of Police, but back when Sergeant Yates was in charge, the department was a hotbed of incompetence and corruption. It was no wonder why many of the townsfolk had never taken the cops seriously.

Token had worked hard to change all that, though. He'd practically rebuilt the place from the ground up. Sure, there were a few bad apples left, but not nearly as many as there once were. It seemed like not a day went by when Token didn't get on his case, but Clyde knew it wasn't personal, and he really respected the guy. Chief Black was nowhere to be found, however. _Something_ was up, he just didn't know what. Token was a workaholic who had never missed a day, and his absence was enough to throw Clyde off.

Clyde carefully tossed the remains of his Nacho Bell Grande into the nearest trashcan, took one last swig of Pepsi, and began wandering the station in search of answers. He had fifteen minutes before his shift actually started, but he was flying solo today. Stan Marsh, his _wonderful_ new partner (sarcasm), had asked for the day off, so he could look after his fiancée following the whole ordeal at the Gazette.

_Ex_ -fiancée, sorry. Token had been kind enough to grant the request, but Clyde thought maybe Stan was milking it a little. Hey, whatever. Clyde had never been engaged (there was no chick _or_ dude hot enough to tie him down!) and maybe Stan was just trying to be...whatd'ya call it... _supportive_.

Damn. There were times when Clyde was _really_ glad he was a swinging bachelor with no emotional commitments at all.

If there was one good thing about working with Stan now, it was that Token had taken him off the graveyard shifts. Hell...to the yeah. Clyde was kind of tired this morning, though. That shit last night was _bananas_ , b-a-n-a-n-a-s. In the end, all the hijackers had gotten away, and no one seemed to have the foggiest idea who they were, or what they'd wanted with Mysterion. Clyde couldn't say he felt too sorry for the guy. Mysterion had _humiliated_ him. As far as Clyde was concerned, he was getting his just deserts! But Tweek…

_Is Tweek really working with a vigilante? Fuck, how'd THAT happen? This is why everyone should be on Facebook!_

Clyde wandered into the station's common room, frowning a little. Dude, what happened to the sweet, nervous little spaz he'd protected throughout high school? Clyde didn't think he could handle the new, badass Tweek. With his all sarcasm and — and badassery. Yeah.

The common room was filled with cops milling about, but Clyde didn't know any of them well enough to strike up a conversation. So he sidled up to Mildred, Token's secretary, smiling pleasantly.

"Hellooo beautiful," Clyde said, leaning flirtatiously over Mildred's desk. "You know, I would offer you a cigarette, but you're already _smoking_ hot."

Mildred blinked up at him. She was a woman in her late sixties, with hair like a bird's nest, teeth stained from years of chewing tobacco and a face like an old leather boot. Mildred had been Sergeant Yates' secretary for years before Token took over, and dealing with Yates' bullshit had given her a thoroughly bad attitude. Most of the officers did their best to avoid her, but Clyde liked to think they had a _special_ relationship.

"Fuck off, taco-breath." Mildred said, her voice like a cement-mixer. Clyde smiled wider, undeterred by her greeting.

"Damn, girl. Can I tie your shoes? I can't have you falling for anyone else…"

"Jesus wept. Are _these_ your best lines? No wonder you're a fat, lonely fuck."

"But I mean, like. I'm trying to see what's up with _you_. We could be together, but you playin'. I last longer than a white crayon, babe."

"You're probably about as _big_ as one down there, too. Give it up, Clyde. Mildred likes her men how she likes her coffee, _black_."

"Speaking of beautiful black men," Clyde chirped, grinning, "where's the Chief?"

Mildred peered at him suspiciously, sucking her teeth. "He walked in ten minutes ago."

_Ten minutes ago?_ Clyde hadn't seen Token at all. "Really?"

"Yes, _really_. Go check his office, dummy."

"I _diiiddd_. I didn't see _himmm_." Clyde whined, bouncing up and down. "He's not _therrre_."

"Then check upstairs!" Mildred snapped, blowing a mouthful of foul wind in Clyde's direction. Sure, Clyde had taco-breath, but at least he didn't have _shit_ -breath.

"Look in the evidence room," Mildred continued crankily, "the Chief goes there sometimes to get _away_ from you blooming idiots."

_Evidence room, check._ "Thanks, babe."

"Go fuck yourself."

Clyde hurried upstairs and paused for a moment, before slipping cautiously into the evidence room. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim lighting, but he spotted Token right away, standing amongst the tagged and bagged items with his head bowed and his shoulders slumped. Clyde immediately felt a pinprick of concern. He had never seen Token look so...so _rundown_. He was even wearing the same blue suit that he'd been wearing last night, Clyde realized with a jolt.

"Umm, Chief?" Clyde said hesitantly, lingering by the door. Token immediately straightened up and glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

"Yes?"

"Uhh…" Clyde gestured weakly, feeling _super_ awkward. "Hey. Uh, I just...came to…" _Check on you?_ Somehow, that turn of phrase seemed _really_ fucking inappropriate, for reasons Clyde couldn't name. Token was his _boss,_ and Clyde didn't want to give his _boss_ the impression that he'd gone out of his way to make sure he was okay. That was just weird. And inappropriate. And Token probably wouldn't appreciate his concern, because he was the _boss_. Yeah.

"I came to ask you about the hijacking last night!" Clyde said, proud of his quick thinking. "Any leads, Chief?"

"No," Token sighed, slowly turning to face him. Clyde couldn't help frowning at the look of pure and utter disgust in his dark brown eyes.

Token was taller than him - but at a measly five-foot-six, most everyone was — with a physique like an Olympic swimmer. He'd always carried himself with quiet confidence, inspiring Clyde hold his head up and suck his gut in a little. Clyde had always liked Token's calm, cool personality (like as in _admired_ , not as in _like-_ liked, okay?!) but it was plain to see that Token was fed up with _everything_ right now. Token shook his head in response to Clyde's questioning look, his jaw tightening.

"I was going to make a general announcement," Token began in a dull voice, "but since you're here, I suppose there's no harm in telling you. I've been suspended, effective immediately."

"Dude... _what_?" Clyde replied, his brows furrowing. "But…"

"I'm not entirely sure how long the suspension will last. The mayor and the county board of directors wouldn't say," Token murmured, smiling grimly. "In the meantime, the department is going to be run by two special agents. They are also the ones who will be looking into the Gazette hijacking."

"S-special agents?" Clyde spluttered, shocked. " _Who_?"

"Gregory Yardale and Christophe Lecuyer. They usually just go by Gregory and The Mole. I have no idea from which agency they come from, but the board of directors informed me that their track record is flawless. Supposedly, they call Christophe _The Mole_ because he's buried hundreds of bodies."

Clyde gaped at Token, feeling as if his head was about to explode. "But Chief... _why_? This isn't _faaair_!"

Token regarded him silently for a moment or two, his eyes subtly warm. "I must admit, I'm surprised you feel that way, Donovan. I thought you'd be happy that I was getting suspended. I've been busting your balls since day one."

"You haven't!" Clyde insisted, stepping forward. "Uh, I mean. You _have_ , but it's only because you wanted me to be a better cop, right? I mean, I never took it personally…"

"Ah." Token exhaled softly, and then smiled a little. Clyde actually couldn't recall a time when he'd seen Token smiling. Well, Clyde was pretty sure he _had_ seen Token smile, just not at _him_. It was a beautiful smile, all nice-like.

"I'm glad you never took it personally, Donovan. I certainly never meant it that way."

"Yeah. No problem, Chief!" Clyde said, glancing away from that smile. "So...you know...what now?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean...you know. How will I — UH." Clyde swallowed, hoping Token wouldn't catch his slip, "How will the _station_ get along without you?"

"The station will be fine. This is your town. These are your friends and neighbors. You all took an oath, remember?" Token replied, raising a brow. "Serve and protect."

"Yeah…" Clyde mumbled. "Serve and protect."

Token sighed again and started for the door. He gave Clyde a pat on the shoulder on his way out, never once noticing the slight flush on Clyde's face.

"As you were, Officer." Token ordered, and then he was gone.

* * *

Kenny wasn't sure when he'd fallen asleep. One moment he was studying Butters's face in Bebe's rearview mirror, wondering where he had gotten that little scar under his left eye, and the next moment Bebe was gently shaking him awake. Kenny started at her touch, feeling disoriented and numb, as if something had dulled all his nerve endings.

"We're here," Bebe said, cutting the engine. Kenny stared blankly at the building Bebe had pulled up in front of, without a single clue where "here" was.

"...what is this place?" Kenny asked finally. He was normally pretty good at deducing things, but his brain was white TV static after the night he'd just had.

"This," Bebe said, opening the car door, "is where Kevin works."

Kenny took a second look, actually squinting this time. "A day care center. Really."

Bebe rolled her eyes. "No, Kenny. Kevin is going to school for engineering, but in his spare time, he participates in his college's outreach program for kids interested in science and computers and things like that. Basically, it's him and a bunch of giggly nerds building robots and blowing shit up for college credits."

"How did you meet this guy?"

"At the club," Bebe answered candidly. "One of his buddies was having a bachelor party. We got to talking, and I agreed to go out on a few dates."

"Really?" Kenny murmured, vaguely surprised.

"Yes," Bebe said, turning to look him in the face, her pale green eyes searching. Kenny knew she was hoping he would show some sign of jealousy, but his expression remained impassive. After a moment, Bebe uttered a small sound of exasperation and glanced away, leaving Kenny feeling guilty for not being able to give her what she wanted — but only a little. _I told you I don't do relationships, beautiful._

"You didn't like him?" Kenny questioned gently. Bebe frowned, absent-mindedly tucking one of her thick curls behind her ear.

"Kevin's a nice guy, but he really wasn't my type," she replied curtly.

"No?"

"No."

"C'mon. Engineering student? I know damn well he's a much better catch than me," Kenny jokingly replied (well, more like jokingly _hinted_ ) , but Bebe only frowned harder, her lips pursing briefly.

"I _said_ he wasn't my type!" Bebe snapped, before she climbed out of the car, slamming the driver's side door a little harder than was necessary. Kenny sighed.

"Wuh-uh, _that_ was smooth." Butters commented dryly, jumping out before Kenny could respond.

Great.

Kenny followed Bebe and Butters up to the building, looking around. Hanging over the front door was a simple sign that read _Youth 4 Science_ , filling Kenny with that creeping feeling of dread he always got whenever he saw anything child-related. Kenny hated kids. He really, _really_ hated kids. The only kid he'd ever liked was his sister, Karen, and even she was much better off without him.

Kenny cautiously opened the door, partly expecting to be mobbed by a flood of screaming toddlers. To his surprise, the place was like a cross between an automotive shop and a science lab, and much bigger than it had looked from the outside. There was a boy sitting behind the reception desk tapping away on a MacBook, with a mop of curly red hair and glasses like the bottoms of Coca Cola bottles.

"Hey," the boy greeted, glancing curiously between Butters, Kenny and Bebe. "Sorry, but the lady who does the sign-ups isn't here today. Can you come back on Monday?"

"I'm looking for a guy named Kevin Stoley," Kenny snapped, brimming with impatience. "Is he here?"

"Maybe. Depends on who's asking," the boy replied, unimpressed. Kenny scowled. Smart-mouth kids like this was exactly why he hated the little bastards. Nevermind the fact that he'd been a smart-mouth kid himself, and at least a hundred times worse.

"If Kevin is here, can we talk to him?" Bebe asked in her sweetest voice, placing a calming hand on Kenny's arm. "Please? It's really important."

"Umm…" The boy looked doubtful, but after a moment he shrugged and indicated that they should follow him deeper inside. "Kevin? Hey, Kevvvin! There's some weird people here to see you."

"Dougie, don't be rude," a man admonished, popping up from around a corner. He turned in Kenny's direction and smiled politely, but his smile faltered and became an expression of genuine surprise when his eyes landed on Bebe.

"Bebe?" Kevin Stoley said, blinking. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Hi Kevin," Bebe replied, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. "I'm surprised you remember me."

"Ah, well, I never forget a pretty face," Kevin answered smoothly.

_Too_ smoothly. Kenny stared at him flatly, trying to get a feel for the guy. He was average of height and lean of build, with short, somewhat messy black hair and distinctive dark eyes set in a fairly attractive face. Kevin glanced curiously between Bebe and Kenny, then at Butters, who had wandered away to get a better look at some machinery displayed behind a glass case, completely uninterested in the conversation. Dougie hovered nearby, looking as if he wanted to talk to Butters, but Butters was radiating _"Leave Me The Fuck Alone"_ vibes so strong, Kenny could feel them from a dozen feet away.

"Flatterer," Bebe accused, her full lips lifting into a smile.

"It's not flattery if it's the truth," Kevin replied, with a wink and a light chuckle. Kenny didn't even bother trying to hide his eye-roll. Bebe nudged him in the side, chastising.

"So," Kevin said pleasantly, cocking his head, "what can I do for you guys?"

"Bebe told me you're the guy to come to if I needed firepower," Kenny said, arching a brow.

"Um..." Kevin rubbed the back of his head, shrugging. "I'm not sure what you…"

"Look, I _really_ don't have time for modesty. My friend is in a lot of danger right now. Can you fucking help me or not?"

Kevin's eyes widened a bit at the harshness in Kenny's tone, clearly taken aback. "I...look, I don't know what Bebe told you, but I'm just a hobbyist, really. I have no idea what you're…"

"Kevin, it's okay," Bebe sighed, touching her fingers to her brow, "this is Kenny McCormick. He's Mysterion."

Kevin gawked at them with wide-eyed bewilderment, while Kenny whirled on Bebe, his hands raised in a _Dude, what the fuck?_ -type gesture.

" _You're_ Mysterion?" Kevin asked, looking partly amazed and partly disbelieving.

"No!" Kenny hotly denied, infuriated with Bebe for revealing his secret identity. Bebe shot him a dark look, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"He _is_ ," she said, folding her arms across her ample bosom.

"Bebe, what the _hell_!"

"Kenny, will you calm the fuck down? I _said_ it's okay. Kevin is your number-one fan." Bebe grumbled, shaking her head.

" _You_ are Mysterion," Kevin said, looking Kenny up and down, as if he was some kind of a cheap rip off. "Really. _You_. No offense, but there's _no way_. This is a prank, isn't it?" Kevin chuckled, shaking his head. "Good one, Bebe. You can stop now."

"Kevin, I'm serious," Bebe replied, earning a confused, dubious glance from the engineering student. "He really is Mysterion, and we really do need your help."

"Christ," Kenny muttered, realizing he didn't have a choice. " _Will this convince you_?" Kenny asked, using Mysterion's deep, gravelly voice. He felt distinctly weird doing it without his mask on. "Now do you believe me, asshole?"

"Holy Wan Kenobi," Kevin said, grinning from ear to ear. "I _knew_ it, I just _knew_ that guy on TV last night wasn't the real Mysterion! He was way too tall, and he sounded nothing like you!"

"Yeah…" Kenny muttered, glancing away.

"Shit! This is...holy crap!" Kevin gushed, looking as if he wanted to start jumping up and down. "You have no idea how _major_ this is for me! I have been your biggest fan since _day one_."

"Okay…"

"Seriously!" Kevin said, gesturing wildly. "You _do_ realize you're living every comic book nerd's greatest fantasy, right? I have _always_ wanted to do what you do, my friend. I've been collecting issues of JLA since I was a kid. I decided to pursue a degree in engineering because I was inspired by _Doctor Octopus!_ When I found out South Park had it's very own real life superhero, I _completely_ freaked out! I run your fansite!"

Kenny opened and closed his mouth a few times, shocked and vaguely disturbed. "... _You_ run I Love Mysterion dot com?"

"Yes!" Kevin said, smiling brightly. "I wanted to create a site where people could share their stories! Have you seen it?"

"I go there all the time…" Kenny admitted reluctantly. Honestly, it was probably the only website he regularly visited that wasn't porn-related. "Jesus, I've helped some of the people that have asked for me in the threads." _Tweek was one of those people._

_/I don't know if Mysterion is real or a hoax. But if you're out there and you're reading this...I could really use your help./_

"Do you remember a girl named Stacey?" Kevin asked, suddenly narrowing his eyes. Kenny got the feeling that he was being tested. "Username BleedingHeartX?"

"Her father was abusing her," Kenny answered immediately, earning a startled glance from Bebe. "I helped her get out of his house a couple of months ago."

Kevin exhaled softly, astonished and impressed. "So...it really _is_ you. I can't fucking believe it. Stacey is living with her grandparents in Denver now, you know. She sent me an email a couple of months ago. Wanted to thank you for saving her life."

Kenny's shoulders slumped a little in a strange mix of gratitude, weariness and shame. His negligence had gotten Tweek captured last night, and he had never felt more _undeserving_ of all this praise. "I'm glad. But I still have something to take care of. That guy you saw on TV last night? He's my partner, Tweek. Some assholes have got him, and I mean to bust some heads until I get him back."

"Really?" Kevin said, massaging his chin. "Okay. You have my help, then. Anything you need."

"This is serious, dude." Kenny said, his tone sharpening. "I appreciate your help, but I can't have you running your mouth about this to _anyone._ Got it?"

"Are you _kidding_ me right now?" Kevin asked, arching a brow. "This is my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to help out a superhero! I swear on my _life_ , my friend. Your secrets are safe with me."

Kenny relaxed a little, nodding. "Thanks."

"The pleasure is mine," Kevin replied, grinning. "I must admit, I'm a little hurt Bebe never told me about you, knowing what a big fan I was…"

"Hey," Bebe said, raising her hands, "Kenny swore me to secrecy, too! Aaand I might have been a _tad_ creeped out when you wouldn't stop talking about him…"

"Really?" Kevin said, smiling unabashedly. "Well...I guess we'll have to find some other things to talk about, then."

Smooth. Kenny huffed in approval. He honestly couldn't decide if Kevin was a charmer, or a complete and utter nerd.

"But first!" Kevin said, whirling excitedly on his heel. "To the Batcave! Follow me, Mysterion!"

Nope, _nerd_. Kenny sighed, hoping he hadn't just made a huge mistake. "Fuck, dude. _Please_ just call me Kenny."

Kenny glanced over his shoulder, looking for Butters and Dougie, but the boys were nowhere to be found. He could only assume that Dougie was showing Butters around. Dougie must be good, if he had found a way to break through Butters's irritation with the world. Kenny started to follow Kevin down the hall, but Bebe stopped him, her expression strange.

"Kenny," Bebe whispered, nibbling on her bottom lip, "I had no idea that's what you did. Helped girls escape their abusive fathers."

"What did you _think_ I did?" Kenny asked, smiling wryly. Bebe swallowed, and then slowly raised her head, meeting his gaze with a severity that made him blink.

"I had no idea," Bebe replied, her tone somewhat challenging. "You never told me."

"I never wanted you to get involved in that Mysterion shit," Kenny said gently. "Trust me, beautiful. It's _not_ as glamorous as Kevin makes it sound. There's no Wayne Manor, no Fortress of Solitude. Being a superhero is hard and dirty and fucking depressing."

"But you do it anyway," Bebe said, her gaze unflinching. "How many people have you saved?"

"I don't know." Kenny replied with a shrug, wondering where she was going with this. "Lots."

"Lots," Bebe repeated incredulously, shaking her head. "You're fucking incredible, Kenny."

"Only in bed," Kenny teased, trying to lighten her mood. "I'm really just a fucked-up, post-grunge, on-again off-again junkie, Bebe."

"No, you're _not_ just that!" Bebe snapped, aggravated. "You have a heart of pure _gold_ , Kenny. I can't believe you'd ever think otherwise." Bebe paused for a moment, then added softly, "I know you're planning to take Kevin and Butters and ditch me here."

Kenny couldn't help but wince. That's _exactly_ what he'd been planning. "Bebe —"

"Don't insult my intelligence," Bebe sighed, smoothing away her strawberry-blond ringlets. "It's okay, Kenny. I'm _not_ angry. I know you don't want me to get hurt, and there's really nothing I can do for you, not now. It's just…"

Bebe frowned, her pale green eyes shiny, before she took a deep breath and forged ahead bravely, "The last time I let you go, you disappeared on me. And I...I don't think I can take that a second time. I can't do this to myself anymore. I can't keep pretending that I'm fine with the way things are between us. I _love_ you, Kenny," Bebe whispered, smiling at his alarmed expression, "I know you don't want to hurt my feelings, but I don't think you realize that keeping me in limbo is hurting me more than an honest discussion ever would."

"Bebe," Kenny muttered, desperately trying to gather his thoughts, "Beautiful. You know I don't —"

"Do relationships?" Bebe interrupted with a snort. " _Bullshit_. I think you're just afraid of letting yourself fall in love. Either way, I'm not going to let you keep me limbo, Kenny. I'm going to ask you a question, and you don't have to answer right away. Rescue Tweek. Go do what you have to do. Take as much time as you need," Bebe said, smiling warmly, "then give me an answer. If you don't come back, if you disappear on me again...then I'll know for _sure_ that you were never worth my time."

Bebe pressed close, gazing deep into Kenny's dark, dark blue eyes. "Will you marry me?"


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

**7.**

**\- PART ONE -**

"NGH, no way man, no way! These people can't have my _ass_! I'm still a virgin! GAH!"

**~ Tweek Tweak.**

* * *

While Bebe was shocking Kenny into silence with her proposal, Craig was stepping out of the elevator at the South Park Genetic Engineering Ranch, vaguely wondering how much different his life would have been if he'd only stayed in school.

He normally wasn't one for regret - what's done is done, after all - but the nagging feeling wouldn't go away. Craig suspected it had less to do with Mephesto's phone call and more with his thinning patience. He felt worn-out and weighed down, but his strides were long and even, revealing none of his weariness or his worries.

As far as the world was concerned, Craig Tucker was stoically confident as always. It was an image he was proud of, an image he rigorously maintained...but just an _image_ , cheap and flashy. The real Craig Tucker was much less sure of himself, and for some reason or another - perhaps because he was tired - Craig noticed each and every stare he received as he slipped through the laboratory's corridors. He had long since become accustomed to ignoring people, but this time he just couldn't brush them off, and those questioning looks accumulated until it felt as if someone had placed an invisible noose around his neck.

No doubt, the entire facility was wondering why he had returned so soon, and _without_ Leopold Stotch. Mephesto had made it pretty clear during their last meeting that Craig (and Red, by association) was not welcome back until he did so, but the old man had received some news that had significantly... _complicated_ things, rendering their previous arrangement null and void. As if shit wasn't complicated enough. Unconsciously, Craig found himself thinking back on the last few hours of his life, frowning a little.

It had all started with that blasted phone call, his sparse ringtone magnified in the silence of the warehouse. Craig had answered without even thinking about it.

"Tucker speaking."

"Craig, my boy," Dr. Mephesto had muttered, his voice dry and wheezy, "there's been _\- shzz -_ a change in plans…"

Craig got the call just as Red was tearing the mask off the person she had _thought_ was Mysterion. He was still unconscious, and had been tied to a chair to keep him from falling over. "His" long purple cloak was removed. The goons Red had brought with her were gathered all around, looking like a gaggle of heavily-armed crows with their protective gear and sub-machine guns. If it were up to Craig, he would have already dismissed the fools and sent them right back to the genetic engineering ranch, but Red had insisted that they stick around, "just in case". Craig wasn't sure what that _just in case_ might entail. Their escape had been quite flawless. As far as Craig was concerned, it was the _only_ part of Red's plan that had actually gone _according to plan._

Red peered into the man's face curiously after she removed his mask, as if she was searching for someone she knew. The man was tall and skinny, with very fair skin and platinum-blond hair that looked almost white in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

" _This_ skinny piece of shit is Mysterion?" Red finally said, propping her hands on her hips. "Honestly, I'm a little disappointed."

Craig had stared at the man, still holding his phone to his ear, not hearing a single word Dr. Mephesto was saying. The man's eyes were closed, but Craig knew that they were green. _Dark green, like the leaves on poinsettia plants._ Without realizing it, Craig's grip on his cell phone tightened and Mephesto's voice faded to a dull buzzing sound. He was usually unflappable, but Craig uttered a frustrated growl that made Red glance at him warily, her brows raised.

"What?" she demanded. "What's wrong?"

"That man is _not_ Mysterion." Craig barked, pressing his phone into the dark material of his suit so Mephesto wouldn't hear him. He'd had his suspicions about the masked man, but he hadn't been entirely sure...until now. _God-fucking-damn it._ Craig couldn't remember the last time he'd been so utterly _done_.

Craig turned away from Red's disbelieving stare, raising his phone back to his ear. Oddly enough, the call seemed to be coming through a bad connection, filled with short bursts of static. Craig could hear Dr. Mephesto shouting his name through the noise, sounding furious and panicky. Honestly, that should have been his first clue that the shit was about to hit the fan.

"Sir? Could you repeat that. There's some kind of interference." Craig said, barely raising his voice. The fact that he hadn't actually been _listening_ in the first place was something Craig chose not to concern himself with, but Mephesto's next words made him wish that he'd paid attention.

"Your former associate is on his way!" Mephesto snarled into the phone. Craig frowned at that, wondering what the hell the lunatic was babbling on about. He didn't _have_ any associates, former or otherwise. Unless…

"The Mole - _shzz_ \- is with him," Mephesto continued darkly. The static-filled call made his voice frustratingly difficult to make out, but Craig had already heard more than he cared to. Craig stiffened, feeling as if someone had just doused him in ice water. Christophe...and _Gregory_. Fuck, why _now_? Craig laughed a little, the sound low and utterly mirthless. He honestly wasn't sure if this news had infuriated or amused him, but it didn't really matter how he felt about the subject either way. If Christophe and Gregory were coming to town, they would only bring one thing with them, and that was _trouble_. Of the spectacular variety.

"How?" Craig asked, properly framing a question for once. He waited for an answer, listening to the crackling noise with growing impatience. Craig spotted Red taking a step toward him out of the corner of his eye, silently mouthing _What the fuck is going on?_ He ignored her for the moment, and growled into his phone, "Sir. What's going on. _Why is there so much static_?"

The last question was spoken in a voice so unlike Craig's usual uninflected baritone Red actually stopped short, her eyes going wide. Craig covered his other ear with his free hand, struggling to hear the old man through all the hissing and popping. He was just about to give up when the line suddenly cleared, but the silence on the other end was ominous rather than a relief.

"Hello?" Craig snapped, his brows furrowed over his icy blue eyes. "Sir, please state your status."

"HPL01 is going critical," Mephesto grimly replied, sounding breathless somehow. "It's interfering with all the phone lines, and the other specimens are becoming unruly. Do you have Butters? _I need. Him. Back!"_

"...No," Craig said, reluctantly, knowing Mephesto would be far from happy with that answer. "We did, however, manage to capture -"

"Kill him!" Mephesto ordered without hesitation. Craig glanced back at the man tied to the chair, his lips thinning. He was groaning now, a low, whimpery sound.

"Sir. With all due respect, Red and I have gone through a lot of trouble to capture this man." Craig replied, his voice even. "We're making progress. If you'll only allow me to question him -"

"No! It's too _late_ for that, my boy. Do you not understand? HPL01 is - _shzz_. If I'd known the process would - _shzzzzzz_ \- acted sooner. I'm going to deploy - _shzzz_!"

"Sir -"

" - _shzz_ , report back to the ranch. _Now_!" Mephesto clipped, and then the line went dead. Craig slowly lowered his phone, his gaze cold enough to freeze someone solid.

"Okay. So what the _fuck_ was that all about?" Red demanded, glaring at him. Craig briefly closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. Normally, this was all he needed to get himself under control again, just _inhale-exhale_ and he was fine. But this time, it didn't work. When Craig opened his eyes, he still felt like kicking the shit out of something (or some _one_ ), and it must have shown up in the stillness of his expression. The hired guns scurried to get out of his way as he crossed the room to stand before their groaning captive. Craig studied the fair-haired man blankly, before he pulled a burlap sack down over his head.

"Craig? _Still_ kind of waiting for an explanation here, tiger."

"Something is going on back at the ranch," Craig replied coolly. "Whatever it is, Dr. Mephesto has ordered us to return immediately."

"What? _Why_? We haven't even -"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Craig interrupted harshly. "He mentioned something about HPL01 going critical."

"The fuck is _that_?" Red shouted, annoyed.

"I don't know. Another one of his twisted experiments, no doubt. He's also ordered us to kill Mysterion," Craig said, shaking his head, "...but this man is not him."

"How do you know?" Red asked in a low, challenging tone, her lips twisted into a sneer.

"This is _not_ Mysterion," Craig shot back, irritated at having to repeat himself. "This is his accomplice. The one I described earlier."

"Oh? Your blond-haired mystery-man?" Red laughed, tossing her coppery hair over her shoulder, "Gosh, you must be so _happy_ right now, sexy. Are you going to pop a boner?"

"Gregory and Christophe are on their way," Craig replied, hoping the news would stick in that vicious, empty head of hers. It did. Red's coy smile immediately dropped off her face, and Craig watched as her brown eyes filled with concern, as well as a great deal of apprehension.

"How many jokes do you think Christophe will be in the mood for?" Craig continued tonelessly, firing off the question like a bullet. "Do you think you have the charm to seduce him? No. This is serious. Gregory and Christophe are serious...so shut your fucking mouth, Red."

Red pursed her lips, glancing away from the intensity in Craig's pale eyes. "...Party-pooper," she muttered.

"They'll want me dead too." Craig pointed out, musing.

"Really? With _your_ winning personality? You don't say."

Red didn't know the half of it. The last time he'd seen Gregory had been at the end of a rifle, all half-assed apologies and dry British wit. Former associate, indeed. Craig idly wondered what Gregory had been doing in the years since they'd worked together, and if he'd missed their old partnership. Gregory always said they made a _smashingly_ good team, and Craig had to admit, the bastard was right. They were the sort of men who _rarely_ worked well with others, so their natural teamwork had come as a surprise to both of them.

They never really got along, though. Craig had always found Gregory _insufferable_ , and Gregory had often (and loudly) proclaimed Craig an icy pain in the arse, but neither of them could deny how well they worked together. Maybe that was why Craig hadn't questioned it too much when Gregory boldly reached for his dick one evening after a job - but then again, Gregory hadn't questioned it too much when he found him already hard.

"We work well together, old sport," Gregory whispered as he fucked him, dripping sweat on Craig's chest.

Craig didn't even bother grunting out a response, just reached up and shoved his fingers in Gregory's mouth, so that he'd _shut the hell up_. He got an incredible amount of satisfaction out of watching Gregory suck on them, all eagerness. Gregory was an arrogant braggart, and he was the _worst_ kind of arrogant braggart, one of the rare few who could actually _back up_ all his boastful claims. He never shut up, ever, and it annoyed Craig to no end. Gregory would have happily narrated his own life story and called it a fucking masterpiece. He was _good_ at this, and Craig wasn't too proud to admit that he'd been enjoying it, but if he had to listen to just _one_ more _you're so tight_ and _I've been thinking about this_ and _you feel so good_ he was going to lose his hard-on.

"You come far too quietly, old sport," Gregory complained when they were done, frowning a little. "I like to be able to hear my lovers! Lets me know I'm doing a good job."

"Good luck with that," Craig deadpanned, and that was it. That had been the start of their _non_ -work relationship, but trying to be _lovers_ had been tantamount to pouring gasoline on an electrical fire. As drastically different as they'd seemed on the outside, on the _inside_ , he and Gregory were far too similar. They were both hardened professionals, grim and realistic in worldview. Craig was naturally unemotional, and Gregory lacked the temperament to make it work, to soften him up. Looking back on it, Craig was convinced they should have kept it strictly professional. In any event, Gregory is the reason he always wears a bulletproof vest.

Craig hadn't known Christophe as well (or as intimately) as he'd known Gregory. It was probably just as well, because Craig was pretty sure Christophe _despised_ him. Running into them again would be...interesting.

Hopefully, he wouldn't.

"So what now?" Red grumbled, eying their captive. "Should we kill him, too?"

Craig briefly considered it, frowning slightly. Their hostage was no good to them alive, but just a little too valuable to shoot in the head... _yet_. "No," Craig replied evenly, "until we find out what's going on back at the ranch, it would be foolish to dispose of him so soon. I do not know what Mephesto has planned, but as far as I'm concerned, our objective remains the same. Leopold is still at large."

"At _large_?" Red echoed, rolling her eyes. "He's just a _kid_ , honey, not a murder suspect. A twink-in-training, stuttering little fool."

_Leopold is no fool. If he was, we would have had him already._ "...until proven otherwise, this man remains our best lead. We need to find out what he knows," Craig shrugged, "and if he proves useless, we can dispose of him then."

"For once, you and I agree," Red purred. "But what about the real Mysterion? Can't have him running around mucking things up, now."

"What about him," Craig replied flatly. "Mysterion is just some moron who has nothing better to do than play a superhero in a small town full of ignorant rednecks. He's not important. As long as we have one," Craig gestured unemotionally down at Mysterion's partner, "we don't need the other. Leopold will be found, one way or another. Mysterion is just a loose end, and Mephesto wants him taken care of."

"Easier said than done, sugar. We don't know who or where he is."

"Perhaps…" Craig replied, eyeing the man in the chair. With a burlap sack over his head and his long cape nowhere in sight, Mysterion's accomplice looked absolutely ridiculous. South Park's very own crusader for justice, indeed. His costume consisted of a lavender-colored jumpsuit with a bright green M sewn on the chest, simple and cheap, just like the town. As much as Mysterion filled Craig with contempt, his partner was doing such a bad impersonation Craig had to wonder why he hadn't noticed it before. The jumpsuit was both too small and too large, as it seemed to have been made for someone who had a shorter stature but a better build. Around the man's waist was a utility belt, and Craig reached for it after a moment of consideration, unsnapping the flaps on the pockets.

"Keep your weapons on him," Craig ordered Mephesto's hired thugs, remembering the shoot-out at the abandoned theater. Their captive had been well-subdued, but Craig hadn't made it this far in life by taking unnecessary chances. He searched through the pockets on the utility belt carefully, coming up with nothing but lint, a bent stick of gum, two condoms in bright red wrappers (Craig rolled his eyes at the sight of them) and...a phone. Craig turned it on, but the damn thing was password-locked. _Figures_. He calmly tucked the phone away (after removing the battery, of course) and resumed searching through the utility belt, with a single-minded concentration that made Red roll her eyes.

"Take your time, tiger. I can step outside if you'd like to do a cavity search."

Craig ignored her. The rest of the pockets on the utility belt turned up nothing, and more nothing. Craig scowled, noting the bulkiness of the costume, and carefully ran his hands up and down the man's skinny torso. He was definitely wearing street clothes under the jumpsuit and... _there_.

Red was just about to make another suggestive comment when Craig stood, holding a mini-GPS tracker in his hand. She arched a brow as Craig turned to her, his handsome face revealing none of what he was thinking.

"GPS?" Red chuckled. "I must admit, I wasn't expecting these yokels to think that far ahead. But so what? Even Mysterion has to know we'd only use it to set a trap for him. If he's smart, he'll stay away."

"True," Craig agreed mildly, "but anyone who would run around wearing his underwear on the outside is not smart."

Craig slammed a hand down on the captive's shoulder. He thought he felt the man flinch, but he immediately went still a split second later, so Craig couldn't be sure.

"Take his GPS and give it to the reject," Craig ordered the nearest goon. Even wearing a balaclava, Craig could see the skin around the man's eyes go pale.

"Of course, s-sir…"

"The reject?" Red gasps, her expression partly horrified and partly disgusted. "That... _thing_ in the van? We were only going to use that if the police got rowdy!"

"Yes. So we'll use it now."

"They're abominations, Craig!"

"I agree."

"They'll eat _anything_! They'll tear Mysterion _apart_!" Red said passionately. When Craig simply stared at her, realization slowly bloomed across her face. "I...see. That's...surprisingly vicious of you, sweetie." Red smiles with newfound appreciation. "I do so love a man who isn't too pussy to fight dirty…"

"I'm a surprisingly vicious person." Craig replies, as if he's commenting on the weather, simply stating facts. "Let's go."

That was hours ago.

Craig left their captive in Red's hands and reported to Dr. Mephesto's office the second he returned to the ranch. Not that he wanted to. Craig could sense something in the air, a disquieting feeling of unease - but in this place that was almost normal.

_Should have fucking stayed in school,_ Craig thought again, shaking off his memories from last night like a dog shaking off water.

Craig rounded a corner and nearly collided with a young researcher with a head full of bright red curls, forcing him back against a wall to avoid being knocked to the floor. The researcher glared at Craig, looking as if he was expecting an apology, but when Craig simply kept walking he hissed under his breath, "Fucking rude much, dude?!"

Craig didn't even bother to turn around, or acknowledge the young researcher's presence in any way. He had much bigger fish to fry. Craig stepped inside Dr. Mephesto's office without so much as a knock, arching a brow at his disheveled employer, feverishly shredding documents at his desk.

"Craig! What in blazes took you so long?!" Mephesto demanded, angrily waving his cane in Craig direction.

"I was on the other side of town," Craig replied, annoyed that Mephesto would even ask such a question. He almost added _cleaning up your messes_ , but kept his mouth shut. "The Mysterion situation has been -"

"Are you still talking about that?! Forget about him, you _dolt_ , we have bigger problems on our hands!" Mephesto snapped, hobbling around his desk. The floor of his usually-immaculate office was covered in shredded paper, and it looked as if every drawer and filing cabinet had been ransacked. Craig's lips pursed at the insult, the annoyance he felt tiptoeing ever closer to genuine anger.

" _You_ have bigger problems on your hands," Craig shot back coldly. "I just work here."

"Exactly! So start _acting_ like it!" Mephesto cried, his beady little eyes wide and crazed in his withered old face. "Christophe and Gregory have infiltrated the police department, and HPL01 is quickly becoming compromised! Without Butters to stabilize the system, millions upon _millions_ of dollars in research could be lost, not to mention -"

"What does that mean to me?" Craig interrupted, glowering. "Christophe and Gregory are not my concern."

"B-but….!"

"Like I said, I just _work_ here. If they've somehow managed to catch wind of your whereabouts, it's because you've been careless about covering your tracks."

"I-I...I can't be bothered with such...such _trivialities_! My research -"

"I don't give a shit about your specimens, or your research." Craig snapped remorselessly. "That's your oversight, not mine."

"It's your concern if I _say_ it's your concern!" Mephesto shouted, spittle flying from his lips. "Don't you understand, you bloody fool?! I could be ruined! _Ruined_! You -"

Craig crossed the room in three quick strides, bearing down on Mephesto like an enraged bull. Mephesto squealed fearfully as Craig seized him by the collar and dragged him close, his pale blue eyes drilling into him like icepicks.

"Understand this," Craig said lowly, tightening his grip, "nowhere in my contract does it state that I'm required to give a single _fuck_ about you. I was hired to secure this facility, not to be your fucking lapdog."

"B-but….B-Butters…my research…"

"Find him yourself," Craig growled, shoving Mephesto back. The old man slammed into his desk and sagged a little, gasping. "I quit."

"C-Craig, my boy…" Mephesto wheezed, "...please, think about this! I need you!"

"Get Red to do it," Craig replied dryly, turning away. "She's been dying to have my position."

" _Red_? No! You of all people should know that _wench_ can't be trusted, she's as reckless and useless as the rest of them! C-Craig! Craig, _please_!" Mephesto begged as Craig began to walk out of the room, his pleas falling on deaf ears. He scrambled after the raven-haired man, seizing hold of Craig's suit jacket with desperate strength. Craig tore himself out of Dr. Mephesto's grasp, regarding the old man with an expression of utter disgust, his eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Craig," Mephesto began nervously, licking his lips, "I can't do this without you, my boy, the situation has become far... _far_ too delicate!" Mephesto's tone was coddling, but when Craig's disgusted expression only deepened, he added desperately, "W-what if I were to offer you a raise? Fair compensation for tasks outside the scope of your contract…"

_"...what_ tasks, exactly?" Craig demanded cautiously, wondering if it might not be better to just keep walking.

"All I need is for you to kill Gregory and his frog-eating bastard of a partner," Mephesto replied eagerly. "Simply covering our tracks is not going to cut it this time. We need to put an end to their little investigation, _permanently_ , so that I may complete my research in peace. I'm so _close_ , my boy, so very close, and _Butters_ is the key!"

_Close? Close to WHAT? What horrifying discovery have you made? Do I even want to know?_ Craig thought wearily, but he already knew the answer to that question. _No._ No, he most certainly did not.

"The answers are at my fingertips!" Mephesto cried, gesturing wildly. With his skewed hat, shock of patchy gray hair, saggy jowls and bugged-out eyes, Dr. Mephesto looked anything but a brilliant geneticist.

He looked like a _madman_ , plain and simple. Craig was suddenly and acutely aware of the fact that he had no idea what Mephesto was talking about anymore, let alone what he was still doing here. He had never felt so exhausted, so fed up to here with the _bullshit_. It was a real shame, too. As much as he'd disliked this place, it had been his first steady paycheck in years. Craig absolutely detested job-hunting, and there were surprisingly few places that would hire ex-convicts with shady connections and deadly skill sets. Craig sighed. _I don't want to have to move Ruby again..._

"Listen," Dr. Mephesto said, snapping Craig out of his melancholy thoughts, "Gregory and Christophe are a threat, but they're little more than annoying flies in the grand scheme of things. Butters, however, is _essential_. If I don't have the boy back in the next seventy-two hours, why, HPL01 - _everything_ I've worked for - it's all doomed! I simply can't afford to waste any more time. _Now_ is our chance to take care of this, once and for all!"

"You keep including me in all your little plans," Craig growled, "but I haven't agreed to a damned thing yet. If Christophe and Gregory were so easy to kill, they'd be _dead_ already, trust me. As for Leopold, he could very well be in the next town by now. He isn't stupid."

"Exactly. Which is why we have to use Number Seventy-Eight," Mephesto replied, his beady eyes gleaming. "It's the only way!"

_This just keeps getting better and better._ Craig actually laughed a little, low and humorless. "I thought Seventy-Eight was too unstable to use."

"He's...shown signs of mental instability, yes…" Mephesto admitted unhappily. "B-but, his results have far exceeded even my wildest expectations, and the researchers have finally perfected the cocktail to keep him docile. He'll follow any order he's given, I assure you!"

"...and I suppose you want _me_ to be the one giving the orders," Craig replied, with a touch of bitterness that surprised even himself.

"Craig," Mephesto said urgently, laying a hand on Craig's arm, "this is the only way, my boy. To make an omelette, you have to crack a few eggs…"

Dr. Mephesto's hand felt just like a claw. Craig brusquely shrugged him off, warring internally with himself. Crack a few eggs to make an omelette, huh. It was easy to say that when you weren't the one getting eggshells on your hands. _Kill Greg and Chris. Find Leopold by any means necessary, even if you have to use a monster to do it. Once again, I'm doing all your dirty work, old man. I'm the one cracking the eggs, but where does that leave me?_

Craig opened his mouth to tell the fucker no, _hell no_ , that he could kiss his ass, that he could go straight to hell if he wanted because that's probably where he was headed anyway...but Craig choked on the words, his little sister's face making him hesitate. _Ruby…_

"As I said, I'm prepared to offer you a substantial raise. Very...substantial," Mephesto said in his thin, wheedling voice, taking Craig's silence for an agreement. "Say -"

" _Fuck_ the raise." Craig interrupted, whirling on Mephesto. "I'm not planning on staying, so start looking for a new head of security. When I said I quit, I damn well meant it."

"B-but...Gregory and Christophe... _Butters_...my p-precious research…!" Mephesto wailed, looking gray and old and sick. Craig watched him squirm for a moment or two, before he smiled coldly, his pale blue eyes like the sky over Alaska.

"If you want to talk business, let's talk business. I need one-hundred thousand dollars wired into my account." Craig shrugged. "I think that's more than fair."

"One-hundred _thousand_ dollars?!" Mephesto sputtered, outraged. "You m-miserable, black-hearted _rogue_! I should have left you in the damned gutter where I found you!"

"You should have," Craig agreed mildly, "but you didn't. You thought I was just another idiot who would quietly take orders, didn't you?"

"I-I...that's…!"

"No need to explain, I really don't give a fuck. One-hundred thousand. That's my fee. Killing Christophe and Gregory is no small feat, but using _Seventy-Eight_ to find Leopold? You must be even more desperate than you look."

Mephesto colored with rage, his saggy jowls trembling. Craig waited, expressionless, and Mephesto finally hissed in surrender.

"Fine, _fine_! You'll get your blasted money!" the old man growled, shooting Craig a look of utter contempt. "Half now, and the other half when the job is done!"

Craig frowned a little at that, but he knew he'd never get a better deal. He was already pushing his luck to the absolute limit. There were some things you just didn't argue with.

"Agreed."

"Bah! Once a thief, always a thief!" Mephesto spat, as if he was laying a curse on him.

"Is there anything else, sir?" Craig inquired, unconcerned. As far as his past crimes went, Craig considered extortion fairly low on the list. Mephesto was only lucky he hadn't asked for more.

Craig had never been greedy, though, just practical. Coupled with the money he'd already saved, an extra hundred thousand would last him for a while. It was more than enough to take care of Ruby, and it would give him the cushion he needed to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life, and figure it out _quick,_ because Craig was _tired_ of this shit, tired of getting paid under the table, tired of private security jobs and mafia hits and the whole distasteful underbelly. He was good at what he did, but only because he'd never been given the opportunity to _do_ anything else.

But _you_ try explaining that you're really not a violent person, just a product of bad influences and a shitty upbringing, when you turn in an application at a respectable company and your prison rap-sheet is the first thing they pull up. Craig had so many people laugh in his face, he eventually stopped trying.

"Yes," Mephesto snapped, much to Craig's surprise. "Mysterion - he _has_ been taking care of, correct?"

_Yes._

_No._

_Sort of._

Craig opened his mouth to explain, but immediately thought better of it. To explain the Mysterion situation, he'd have to explain what'd happened at the Gazette, and he really didn't feel like doing that. Mysterion didn't matter anymore, and Craig desperately needed to get out of this room before he went batshit.

"Yes," he lied, his mind briefly going back to the blond-haired man. _I suppose I'll have to figure out what to do with him, now...great. Fucking fantastic._

"Good," Mephesto replied darkly. "You have three days, boy. _Three_ , understand? Now get out!"

Craig left without another word, unconcerned about the money. Mephesto was far from trustworthy, but Craig knew the old man would keep up his end of the bargain, fueled by his own madness if nothing else. Fifty thousand dollars now, another fifty thousand after he killed his former associates and retrieved Leopold. _Fine_. Craig couldn't have asked for a clearer set of objectives. It was cut and dry, no muss, no fuss.

So _why_ did he suddenly feel so awful? This indecision...it wasn't like him.

Craig rounded a corner and ducked into the nearest empty room, in desperate need of a moment to think. He was immediately greeted by the sight of wall-to-wall computer monitors whirring away in the darkness, processing God-knows-what information. Craig took a deep breath, then another, unconsciously reaching up to loosen his tie. _Just think of the money,_ Craig told himself _,_ practical as always. _Think of Ruby. Think of your freedom, and don't fuck this up._

Right.

Craig reached into his back pocket and pulled out a tiny notebook with an attached gel pen. He flipped through this notebook until he found a blank page, past all his personal notes, phone numbers, job-related observations and lists.

Craig _loved_ making lists. Grocery lists, to-do lists, lists of long and short-term goals, you name it. Ruby thought he was just fooling himself, but there was something about organizing his life on paper, writing those little numbers, arranging items of business in order from least to most difficult, that made Craig feel like he had everything under control, even if it was all just bullshit.

_1\. Kill Christophe._

_2\. Kill Gregory._

_3\. Use Seventy-Eight to find Butters._

_4\. Figure out what to do with Mysterion's accomplice._

Craig's handwriting was small and neat. He stared blankly at his latest itinerary, trying to figure out what would be the easiest thing to tackle, but there were no easy things, just a page full of unpleasantness with a bucket of dirty money at the end. _Just get on with it,_ a callous voice whispered somewhere deep inside. _It's not like your hands aren't already stained._

...Right.

_Figure out what to do with Mysterion's accomplice._

The line jumped out at him, almost mockingly. Fuck it. He was already here, and procrastinating wasn't going to make this any easier.

With a final world-weary sigh, Craig tucked his notebook away and went to take care of business.

* * *

If you were going to tie someone up, Tweek thought as he worked at his binds with increasing desperation, the very least you could do was use a soft nylon rope.

Whoever had tied _him_ up must have taken a class in advanced kidnapping techniques, because Tweek had been trying to free himself for what felt like forever, to no avail. The cheap twine his capturers had used had chafed the skin around his wrists raw, and Tweek's panicked struggles hadn't really helped much. Tweek wasn't too proud to admit that at first he'd tried to bust himself out Hulk-style, even though Kenny regularly had to open jars for him because they were just too _haaard_.

If he'd been thinking rationally, he would have realized that it was useless after the first couple of tries - but it was hard to be rational when you were terrified and confused, hard to be rational when you'd never been very good at being _rational_ in the first damned place. For a while, all Tweek could think was _TRAPPED, OH GOD I'M TRAPPED, I'M TRAPPED AND I'M GONNA DIE!_ and his anxiety-ridden brain had taken care of the rest.

For a time which had _felt_ like forever (but was really only twenty minutes) he'd struggled like a fish on a line, mouth dry, eyes stinging, his heart jackhammering in his chest, but _nothing fucking worked_ , and Tweek couldn't help but think that being tied to a chair and left to rot in a creepy torture room was a really stupid way to die.

It wasn't even death Tweek feared, not really. He was no stranger to thoughts of suicide. Tweek thought he did okay most days - he _was_ okay most days - but there had been times when getting up in the morning just hadn't seemed worth the effort, when forcing himself to go through the motions had felt like a joke with no punchline.

When his parents were still alive, offing himself was an idea that only occurred to him on days when his anxiety was especially bad, usually while he was huddled under the blankets in his room upstairs, waiting for his world to resume equilibrium. After Mom and Dad were murdered, after the fire, after he lost _everything_ , well...suicide went from being **Just A Thought** to being **A New And Exciting Option**.

Kenny noticed. Of course he did, man. Kenny had a way of noticing everything, and then surprising you with the details when you least expected him to. Just when Tweek was starting to believe McCormick couldn't _possibly_ be any more full of himself, that he was nothing but a trashy, slutty, self-destructive fucking idiot, _bam_! Kenny would go and do something so selfless, so heroic, so stupidly compassionate it brought tears to his eyes.

Kenny was the most contradictory bastard he'd ever met, and Tweek could never be sure of what he was going to get when he was dealing with the guy. Sometimes it was an endless stream of comments so filthy they'd make a porn star blush, sometimes Kenny seemed incapable of taking _anything_ seriously, and then sometimes he would drop a smidgen of knowledge or a bit of advice so utterly profound it was like a rapper dropping the mic. Tweek liked to think he knew his friend better than anyone, but there were times when he was positive he didn't know Kenny at all.

Who knows, maybe Kenny preferred it that way.

Tweek wasn't expecting Kenny to care so much. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part, because suddenly Kenny, who was very much a _You do your thing, I'll do my thing and we'll see each other whenever_ -type guy, wouldn't leave him alone. Kenny never came right out and said _I'm afraid I'm going to come back to the base one day and find you've blown your brains out, dude,_ but Tweek knew that's what he had been thinking.

Tweek didn't want Kenny to be concerned about him, though. He didn't want to have someone who cared, who would be sad if he was gone. Knowing that Kenny was fighting tooth and nail for him when he'd already given up didn't make Tweek feel good, it just made him bitter and resentful. If he didn't give a fuck, why should anyone else, man?

"Tweek," Kenny said one day as Tweek was staring at his laptop, not even doing anything on it, just staring, "a friend of mine is moving house, and she needs a little help with the heavy shit. C'mon, let's get out of the base for a while."

It was such a small, simple, stupid little request. The fact that he'd gotten upset over it made no sense at all, but Tweek just couldn't help it. The infuriated tirade he'd launched at Kenny then had surprised them both, because Tweek hardly ever got angry. He _yelled_ a lot, sure, but that's only because he was high-strung (and let's face it, a little crazy), not because he was angry, man! Half the time he didn't even realize he was doing it; the part of his brain responsible for maintaining a normal speaking cadence just didn't quite work right.

Once, Kenny rolled his eyes and said, "Dude, I'm right here, you don't have to yell."

"Eh?" Tweek opened and closed his mouth a few times, startled. "Ngh, sorry…"

"You're so screamy," Kenny continued, grinning. "Damn dude, how loud are you going to get in bed?"

"S-shut up, you fucking pervert!" Tweek replied, flushing with embarrassment.

Everyone who knew him (there weren't that many people who _did_ , but that was beside the point!) knew he was a surprisingly chill guy. Tweek wasn't angry, he was just loud, okay? But there could be no mistaking how angry he'd been that day, how _furious_. Tweek couldn't even say exactly why, couldn't pin it down to one reason alone. There were too many reasons, too many bad feelings. He was exhausted and depressed, frightened and sick at heart, and suddenly all he'd wanted to do was lash out at someone. _Anyone_. He supposed the old saying was true: misery loves company.

And boy, was he ever miserable back then.

Tweek doesn't remember half of what he said, thank goodness. The little he does recall is so awful it always makes him cringe. He must have called Kenny every name in the book, hurling threats and obscenities at the top of his lungs, half-blind with tears, filled with so much self-loathing he couldn't see that his friend was only trying to help him. Kenny didn't say a word, just let Tweek shout himself hoarse, his expression almost serene. Then, when Tweek had finally quieted down, trembling and gasping for breath, Kenny arched a brow.

"Are you done, dude?" he asked. That was it. So calm, so simple. But that simple statement had carried so much more meaning.

_Are you done throwing a tantrum? Are you done with trying to push me away? Are you satisfied? 'Cause I'm not giving up on you, dude. I'm not letting you throw in the towel. Deal with it, alright? Now, we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. You can either put on some clothes and help me move some fucking furniture, or I can kick your stupid ass from here to Denver and drag you out. Your choice._

Tweek had sniffled, shuddering, before following Kenny silently out of the base, just after slipping a pair of sneakers on.

So yeah, he wasn't really afraid of dying, although the thought of going out in some horribly painful way made his stomach churn. He just...didn't want to bite the big one until he'd kept all his promises. _Oh God, I never even apologized to Kenny for being such a dick…_

Tweek tested the ropes one more time, then sighed. Nope, still not budging. Tweek could feel panic rising in his throat like acid bile, but he fought it off, shaking. _Get it together Tweek,_ he thought, clenching his teeth, _get it the fuck together! You aren't a little kid anymore, hiding under the covers. You aren't that idiot who got his parents killed, you aren't even that depressed piece of shit who was ready to give up on everything a few years ago. You may be weird and a little messed up in the head, but you're NOT helpless, not anymore._

"I'm not helpless," Tweek whispered to himself. It was the same thing he'd whispered as he practiced with his nines, spending hours upon hours at different shooting ranges. The weight of the guns - simply _holding_ a firearm - had terrified him at first. It had taken forever for him to work up the nerve to even pull the trigger. Tweek would stand there, shaking like a leaf, the human-shaped cutout before him very much intact, while the other gun enthusiasts gave him strange, sidelong stares. And then, when Tweek finally _did_ pull the trigger, none of his shots seemed to go where he wanted them to.

"Maybe you should give up, sonny," some guy told him once, exasperated. "You're just wastin' bullets."

Tweek had shaken his head, sullen. No way man, no fucking _way_. He kept practicing, kept pulling the trigger, until it no longer scared him, until he could hit every target _dead-center_ , imagining it was his parents' killers instead of a thin paper outline.

_I'm not helpless, I'm not helpless, I'm not helpless, I'M NOT FUCKING HELPLESS, and the people who laughed as they poured gasoline on my head and set my whole life on fire will know it one day, too._

Tweek took a deep breath, and for the first time since he had regained consciousness, looked around the room.

...and that's it, that's _all_ it was. Just a room. Kind of a _boring_ room, actually. Now that he'd calmed down enough to think somewhat clearly, it was pretty obvious that this wasn't the dungeon his panicked imagination had conjured up. There were no shackles, no whips, no big interrogation spotlights, no sledgehammers to break his knees with. Just a plain white room with a little table on one side, and a hand-washing sink on the other. It strongly reminded Tweek of an _examination_ room at a doctor's office.

_Oh Jesus, what if I'm about to be probed?! GAH!_

"NGH, no way man, no way!" Tweek groaned, fidgeting in the chair he'd been tied to. "These people can't have my _ass_! I'm still a virgin! GAH!"

The door to the room suddenly swung open, and a beautiful woman with long red hair marched in, loudly popping the gum she was chewing. In her hands was a manila envelope. Tweek watched like a rabbit gone stiff as she sauntered over to the table and then propped her backside onto it, eyeing him disinterestedly all the while.

"Trust me," the woman said in a bored tone, "nobody here wants your ass, Tweek."

"How the fuck do _I_ know that, man?!" Tweek demanded, before he paused, blinking. "Gah! How the hell do you know my name?! Ngh, who _are_ you?!"

The woman snorted, holding up the envelope. "I took the liberty of looking you up while you were unconscious. You're an interesting guy, to say the least. What's up with your name, though? Tweek _Tweak_? Was that supposed to be ironic?"

"My parents were raging hippies back in the day, man, what can I say?" Tweek grumbled, eyeing the woman sourly. "Maybe they thought my name had a ring to it, fucking _alliteration_ , I don't know!"

"Gee, aren't we feisty?" the woman replied, smiling at the hostility in Tweek's voice. "I'm Red, by the way."

"Jesus, like your hair?" Tweek narrowed his big green eyes suspiciously. "Is that your real name? Ngh, you're _lying_ , aren't you?! Aren't you?!"

"My real name is Rebecca," Red replied without hesitation, arching a brow. " _Red_ is my nickname...slash alias. It's easier for these slack-jawed morons around here to remember. I really don't give a fuck if you believe me or not, though."

"Yeah, I bet that's what all you government types say," Tweek spat. "Fucking typical, man!"

"Government?" Red repeated slowly, looking genuinely perplexed.

"Pulling up someone's file...accessing _personal_ information...you're all just tools, man!" Tweek cried passionately, twitching and wriggling in his seat. The binds around his wrists bit painfully into the tender skin there, but he didn't seem to notice. "EVIL GODDAMN TOOLS!"

"Oh _hon_ , this is the furthest thing from government-sanctioned," Red chastised playfully, her lips turning up at the corners. "Do you have _any_ idea where you are?"

Tweek stopped wriggling long enough to look up, wearing an expression of exquisite confusion. "E-ehh?" Red chuckled, tossing her coppery hair over her slim shoulders.

"This is South Park's Genetic Engineering Ranch, sweetie."

_Genetic Engineering Ranch?_ Tweek thought, anxiously chewing the inside of his bottom lip. The name rang no bells within him at all, but then he remembered - vaguely - that there was supposed to be some kind of research facility somewhere in town, a high-tech, privately funded laboratory that had been here for years, like Skeeter's Bar or City Wok.

Tweek had always wondered why someone had chosen a pisshole-in-the-snow place like South Park to conduct genetic research. South Park was hardly the most urbane place in the world, after all. Tweek knew for a fact that there were people living here who would be willing to swear on a stack of Bibles that ManBearPig would appear if you looked in a mirror and said his name three times fast.

It _reeked_ of conspiracy - or so he'd thought, nine years old and already paranoid as hell, watching the morning news while he ate his Frosted Flakes. His parents had thought it was cool, commenting positively on the construction of the facility, but knowing that his town would soon be home to a bunch of faceless men in lab coats had freaked him out. Tweek eventually forgot all about it - high school and all its horrors taking precedence in his mind - but every time he caught a glimpse of the ranch on TV or read about it in the papers he got the heebie-jeebies.

"I thought this place was just a privately funded laboratory...run by some old scientist dude," Tweek muttered, frowning.

"And so it is. That " _old scientist dude"_ is Dr. Mephesto. You may have heard of him." Red commented dryly, forming air quotes around the words _old scientist dude_.

Tweek _had_ heard of him - dimly. Dr. Alphonse Mephesto was as reclusive as he was wealthy, a seldom-seen old man who had made waves in the scientific community for his brilliance...and his unconventional ideas. Since retiring to South Park, he had apparently made a number of generous contributions to the town. The new wing of the library at the local community college had been made possible by a donation of several million dollars, and Mephesto's name could be found on the list of contributors for every charity Mayor McDaniels had pimped over the years, from the admirable to the downright silly.

Suddenly, Tweek could feel a twisting knot of dread forming in his gut, as if he'd just swallowed a bowl of worms.

"Bribes," Tweek whispered. "Dr. Mephesto has been _bribing_ the mayor for years, hasn't he?"

"Whoa! Check out the big brain on Tweek!" Red laughed. "He has indeed. Mephesto is very passionate about his research, and he _loathes_ interruptions. Interruptions," Red said slowly, crossing the room with a decidedly seductive strut, "like those big bad _government_ types you're so wound up about. Mephesto makes a few noble contributions, and our dear mayor makes sure his little side-projects stay out of the papers."

"OH GOD, I KNEW IT!" Tweek screamed, his voice reaching that high, panicked quality that had always gotten on Kenny's nerves. "Ngh, I _knew_ this place was shady from the very beginning!"

Red rolled her eyes. "Oh shut up, Felicia, you didn't know anything."

"Why?!" Tweek hissed, glaring at Red. "How?!"

" _Why_? Look, it's a mutually beneficial relationship, really." Red replied, examining her nails disinterestedly. "Back in the day, South Park was a just a cum-stain on the map of Colorado, a little town nobody'd heard of with a population of exactly 4,000. Now it's home to almost 40,000, and includes the boroughs of North Park and East Park."

Red shrugged. "That kind of urban development doesn't happen overnight, hon, and it _certainly_ doesn't happen without cold, hard cash. You stupid hicks should be _thankful_. Dr. Mephesto is a philanthropist."

"Philanthropist my ass, man! If his research was so damn noble, he wouldn't have to hide it!" Tweek snapped.

"Dr. Mephesto is a man of progress," Red's tone was cool, her smile coy. "Unfortunately, there are lots of folks who would stand in the way of that progress."

" _Screw_ you, _screw_ him, and _screw_ his goddamn progress! Oh _God_ ," Tweek gasped as a truly horrifying idea occurred to him, "is he responsible for the underpants gnomes too?!"

" _Excuse_ me?"

"The underpants gnomes, man!" Tweek repeated, nervously running his tongue over his dry, chapped lips. "T-they're little guys that steal into your room l-late at night and -"

"Look," Red interrupted, irritated. "I don't know what the hell you've been smoking, but Dr. Mephesto has got nothing to do with that."

"So what _is_ he doing, then?" Tweek demanded, even though he wasn't at all sure he wanted to know.

Red shrugged again. "Dr. Mephesto has always been obsessed with unlocking human potential. Can't do that without humans, I suppose…"

For a moment Tweek simply gaped at her, his eyes so big they seemed to take up half his face, his skin the color of milk. The permanent dark circles under his eyes stood out in stark relief against his pale skin, giving Tweek a sick, spooked look. His stomach lurched, and for a moment Tweek wondered if he was going to throw up - because if he was, he wanted to make sure he aimed his vomit in Red's direction. Something Butters said offhandedly -

_/I was kept on a pretty strict diet in the lab.../_

\- came shooting back to him, like a missile launched from a thought-rocket, and when it exploded in Tweek's hyperactive brain suddenly everything seemed to click with frightening speed. Tweek began to tremble again, but it wasn't from fear this time. This time, it was from sheer _outrage_.

"Human experimentation," Tweek said, his voice low, razory. "Y-you...you...NGH, YOU SICK SACKS OF SHIT!"

Red arched a brow, her expression one of detached amusement. "Calm your tits, dude."

"What did you do to him, huh?! _What did you do to Butters_?" Tweek snarled, with a vehemence that made Red take a small, surprised step back.

Red had found it difficult to believe that _this_ was the man who had so impressed Craig with his deadly accuracy with a firearm. Tweek was so tall, so skinny, so awkward it was _painful_ , all long limbs and knobby knees and sharp points without any cushion to speak of. His face was horsey, his platinum-blond hair a wild mess, but even Red had to admit the guy had the most beautiful green eyes she'd ever seen, large and expressive above his puffy dark circles. He seemed harmless. A little _crazy_ , yes, but completely non-threatening.

Red could tell that she had misjudged him. There was no doubt in her mind that if he'd had a gun, he would have _shot_ her. Tweek's eyes were green fire, and his lips had pulled back over his teeth in an unconscious grimace of disgust. Red grinned, playfully tickling her fingers along the blond whiskers under his chin.

" _I_ didn't do anything," Red replied, laughing. "You'd have to ask Dr. Mephesto that question. I may be a glorified zookeeper, but I do _not_ pick up the poop."

Tweek tore his face away so violently he nearly gave himself whiplash. He was shaking with rage, and to his embarrassment, realized he was on the verge of tears. _Stupid_. Tweek always cried when he was really upset, and it sucked. He wanted to be _tough_. He wanted people to know that he was _stark raving pissed off_. He wanted everyone to be _scared_ when he was hurting, like they were on the rare occasions when Kenny completely lost his temper.

But nope. Instead, he always dissolved into tears and erratic behavior - well, more so than usual. Tweek angrily swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat, glumly studying the opposite wall. There was no way, absolutely, positively, _no fucking way_ he was going to cry in front of this bitch.

"Butters is a _kid_. A human being," Tweek croaked.

"So?" Red's voice was remorseless. "You act like being a _kid_ and being an _experiment_ are mutually exclusive."

"This is fucking illegal, man! _ILLEGAL_!"

"Oh, quite." Red agreed amiably. Tweek twitched and bit his lip, his expression stony.

"Aww, you look so upset," Red cooed softly. "Did Butters charm you, too? He's good at that, you know, with that syrupy Southern accent and naive farm boy personality of his. Gosh, he charmed the _pants_ right off poor Bradley…"

Tweek jerked, the words flying out of his mouth before he could stop them, "Who's B-Bradley?"

Red chuckled again, and then eased herself down on Tweek's lap, as if she was sinking into an armchair. Tweek recoiled, his flesh crawling, and tried to twist away, but there was no escape. The twine bit deeply into his wrists, making them bleed.

"Another experiment," Red answered, ignoring Tweek's discomfort. "I hope you didn't think Butters was the only one?"

_I didn't, but I hoped he was._ Tweek grit his teeth. "Get. Off. Me."

"Every good experiment needs a control group," Red continued conversationally, as if Tweek hadn't even spoken. "That's, like, basic third-grade science. Let's see, there was Bradley...and Michael. Seventy-Eight, but he's a _psychopath_. A few others. I must admit, I'm surprised Butters flew the coop without his precious Bradley."

Red chuckled. "Butters must think he's dead. I mean, he _could_ be. Bradley wasn't looking too good last time I checked."

" _Get off me!"_

"Mephesto likes 'em young, you see," Red murmured, nuzzling close to Tweek heaving chest. "Boys especially. Between you and me, I think the doctor might have just a _touch_ of pedo in him, but that's neither here nor there. Enough about Butters, though…"

Red gently ran a finger along the side of Tweek's face. "Let's talk about you."

Tweek could feel tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, hot and stinging, and they felt just like _betrayal_ , man, because he had never been so disgusted, so ready for unmitigated violence, "You're _disgusting_. You're a disgusting, _HORRIBLE_ EXCUSE FOR A HUMAN BEING!"

Red opened her mouth to respond, but before she could get so much as a word out, the door to the little room opened and Craig Tucker walked in, without warning or ceremony.

"Red. You talk too much," Craig clipped, pausing in the doorway, his voice deep and uninflected.

"Hmph," Red sniffed, sliding off Tweek's lap, much to his relief. "Last time I checked, my contract didn't include a non-disclosure agreement. And who cares, anyway? It's not like he's getting out of here alive. Mephesto's always looking for new test subjects."

"Ngh, WHAT?!" Tweek squeaked, his heart lurching in his chest.

Craig shot Red an irritated look, his lips tightening ever-so-briefly, before he settled into his usual blank expression.

"...you're on stand-by until further notice," Craig said tonelessly, as if he was delivering a weather report.

" _Stand-by_?" Red scoffed, clearly offended, her nostrils flaring. "With everything going on around here? Are you fucking _joking_?"

"If you have a problem, take it up with the doctor," Craig replied, unperturbed. Red's expression went dark and scornful, her features twisting to reflect the ugliness inside, and for a second Tweek thought she was going to leap across the room and claw Craig's eyes out in frustration - but she didn't. Red quickly composed herself, squaring her shoulders and adjusting her blouse with a huff.

"Whatever, I don't have time for this bullshit," she announced, gliding out of the room. "I have a mani-pedi at eleven. Later, bitches."

Craig watched her go without a flicker of emotion. When her boot-heels faded into silence down the hall, he turned to level Tweek with a hard, flat stare. Craig's pale blue eyes were piercing, and Tweek was suddenly and uncomfortably aware of just how alone he was.

_Oookay, Tweek. Whatever you do, DON'T panic._ "Oh, sweet _Jesus_ ," he blurted, as if his mouth had a mind of its own, "am I really going to be Mephesto's next guinea pig, man?! _Gah_ , I'm scared of needles!"

Fuck.

Craig arched a brow at him, but he didn't say a word. Instead, he picked up the manila envelope that Red had left behind - Tweek's file - opened the contents and began reading. Tweek watched, trying to keep himself from twitching too badly, as Craig shuffled through the papers with silent intentness, like a teacher reading an interesting essay.

"H-hey! Don't read that!" Tweek protested weakly. Jesus, he sounded just like a fucking kid. He was twenty-four, man! An _adult_! He didn't need this shit! It was almost as if whatever hormones responsible for getting him past puberty had conveniently forgotten about that part. Tweek cleared his throat and tried to put some bass in his voice, for all the good that did him. "Hey fuck-face, that stuff's confidential!"

Craig keep reading as if he hadn't even heard him.

"I'm serious, man! W-what you're doing is a GROSS invasion of privacy!"

Craig idly licked his thumb and turned a page.

"I could sue your ass for this, man! I could take you for millions! MILLIONS! Ngh, you won't look nearly so tough when all you're able to afford is cheap polyester tracksuits!"

"Hm," Craig murmured to himself, sounding vaguely impressed, like he'd just read something particularly noteworthy. His eyes never once left Tweek's file.

Tweek could feel a vein throbbing above his left eye, and a horrible headache was starting to take root in the hollows of his temples. At this point, he wasn't sure if it was from stress, the blow he'd taken earlier, or caffeine withdrawal. With his luck, it was probably all three.

"ARG, when I get outta here I'm going to burn this fucking place to the _ground_ man, to the goddamn _foundations_ , you hear me?! Hey! _HEY_! PAY ATTENTION TO ME, YOU ASSHOLE!"

Craig ignored him. He had finally reached the last page of Tweek's personal history, and was reading with rapt attention, his eyes flying over the words. Tweek couldn't help but wonder what was in there, with an uneasy feeling in his gut. Medical records? Old report cards? Transcribed interviews with his college professors? Grainy black-and-white photos taken via satellite?

Possible, possible. At this point, _anything_ was possible, man.

Craig slowly lowered his file. Tweek had never considered himself very interesting, but for a moment Craig stared at him as if he was a new and interesting species of insect. Tweek couldn't help squirming a little under the piercing intensity of Craig's gaze, feeling as if he'd been laid bare.

"Tweek Tweak," Craig finally said. Tweek stiffened, expecting the worst. "You're my responsibility now, at least for the time being. I, however, have far more pressing matters to attend to, so until I figure out exactly _what_ I'm doing to do with you, you're going to be spending the next few days in a holding cell."

Craig took a step toward him, his eyes locked on Tweek's face. Tweek stared, a little mesmerized, a little terrified, as Craig slowly withdrew a folding knife. "I'm going to untie you, now," Craig continued, his voice perfectly even, "and I would advise you not to try anything. I'm not in the mood. Once I untie you, I want you to stand up and slowly put your hands over your head, understand?"

Tweek bit his lip, frowning. "Ngh...and if I don't?"

Something flickered in Craig's eyes and was gone in an instant. "If you cooperate, there might be a chance that you'll get out of this alive. A _slim_ chance, granted, but it's better than nothing. If you insist on making a nuisance of yourself, I will personally deliver you to the laboratory, and you will never see the light of day again. Your choice."

Tweek laughed hollowly, shaking his head. "Oh _God_. When you put it like that, I don't really have a choice, y'know?"

Craig shrugged his broad shoulders. "I just gave you one. What you do from here on out is entirely up to you."

"Just - _rrrngh_ \- fucking untie me already!"

"Smart choice," Craig replied mildly, kneeling down to slice through the duct tape around Tweek's ankles. Tweek vaguely contemplated kicking Craig in the face, but he dismissed the idea pretty quickly. No sense in pissing the guy off...especially not when that guy was packing a Desert Eagle in a side holster.

Tweek caught a faint whiff of Craig's cologne as he slipped around his chair to free his wrists, a distinctly masculine scent that reminded Tweek of eucalyptus and peppermint. Whatever it was, it smelled _good_. Tweek found himself inhaling surreptitiously, wondering how badly he must reek in comparison. After the night he'd just had, Tweek was willing to bet he probably smelled a bit like an old gym sock that had been soaked in coffee.

Tweek tensed when he felt the cold touch of the blade, but then - _ahhh_ \- blessed freedom. The twine slithered to the floor like a serpent that had been cut in half, and Tweek immediately brought his hands up to his face, wincing at the stiffness in his arms.

"Wahhh, oh jeez," Tweek mumbled, carefully licking a particularly nasty cut on the inside of his left wrist. He was sore and bruised, but otherwise okay...for now, at least.

"Stand up," Craig commanded behind him, his tone brooking no argument. Tweek sighed and stood, slowly raising his arms above his head.

"Higher."

"Jesus man, is all this really necessary?!" Tweek cried, begrudgingly doing as he was told.

"I've read your file. I've seen how you handle a gun," Craig replied, perfectly serious. "You're dangerous, and I'm not taking any chances with you."

Tweek tried to process this, and came up with nothing.

He heard a soft rustling sound, and a second later Craig was dangling a pair of handcuffs in front of his face, looking stern. Tweek's eyebrows shot up, a sharp spasm coursing through his body.

"Oh jeez, man, _jeez_! The hell are those for?!"

"If you come quietly, I won't have to handcuff you," Craig replied. "If not, then I will."

"I'll go, I'll go!" Tweek insisted, the thought of being restrained again making him feel nauseous. "Can I - _nggh_ \- should I lower my hands now, or...?"

"You may," Craig replied coolly, before he turned and gestured toward the door. Tweek followed him meekly, his heart lodged somewhere in his throat.

The corridor outside had a sterile, almost surgical feel to it, like a hallway in a medical examiner's office. Craig immediately hung a right, his stride brisk, while Tweek lingered in the doorway for a moment or two, glancing longingly in the opposite direction.

"If you're thinking about running, I wouldn't recommend it," Craig tossed over his shoulder in a bored tone, without stopping or slowing down.

"Jesus man, I wasn't _gonna_!" Tweek replied petulantly, even though he'd _seriously_ been considering it. _Forget it man, it's a really bad idea._

Tweek jogged a little to catch up with Craig - already halfway down the hall - and fell in just a step behind him, glaring daggers at the broad planes of his muscular back. If Craig noticed Tweek's sullen, angry silence at all, he either didn't care or had chosen not to comment. Somehow, this man's utter indifference only made Tweek _angrier_. He felt like a balloon that had been inflated with agitated anxiety instead of air. One wrong move and he would _explode_ , man.

If their situations had been reversed, Kenny would have played it cool, Tweek reflected sadly. Kenny would have flashed that dazzling smile of his and charmed Red right out of her painted-on jeans. None of this would have gotten to him. Tweek respected Kenny far too much to ever let something as petty as _jealousy_ come between their friendship, but he couldn't help wanting to be like Kenny sometimes, fearless and self-assured, instead of a fucked-up loser who had never been able to control his emotions, just like he'd never been able to control his tics and twitches and spasms.

_Our mayor is corrupt and Dr. Mephesto is a lunatic. Sweet Jesus, what these people are doing is WRONG! Doesn't anyone CARE?!_

Tweek was bristling by the time they reached the elevator at the end of the hall. Craig whipped a keycard out of his suit and slid it through a reader next to the call buttons, ignoring Tweek's glare.

"Are you _proud_ of yourself?" Tweek asked acidly as the elevator opened with a faint whoosh, unable to help himself. The words tumbled out over his lips before he could weigh their ramifications, but right now he was beyond caring. "Working for a guy who experiments on people like they're fucking _dogs_?!"

Tweek wasn't expecting Craig to answer him, but Craig's mouth pulled down at the corners as the elevator's door closed behind them, like he trying for the world's vaguest frown.

"...it's got nothing to do with me." Craig muttered. The elevator began moving down slowly, giving Tweek a somewhat weightless feeling.

"Nothing?" Tweek huffed. " _Nothing_ , he says. Are you an idiot, or just a heartless bastard?!"

Craig finally turned to face him, his pale blue eyes like two chips of ice. "Don't call me a bastard," he deadpanned. "I won't tolerate that from the likes of you."

Tweek pressed himself against the wall furthest from Craig Tucker, trying not to feel intimidated. At 5'11, Tweek was pretty tall - but Craig was even taller, 6'3 or '4, and built like a cage fighter besides. Craig wore that expensive dark suit of his like he was modeling for Armani, but any idiot could see that this man wasn't just some pretty boy.

"Fine," Tweek shot back sarcastically, "how 'bout I call you an _asshole_ , then? A big, brown, gaping - _nnngh_ \- SHITTY ASSHOLE who's apparently fine with the idea of human experimentation. And kidnapping. A-and, _gah_! Probably child pornography, for all I know!"

Craig's expression seemed to darken subtly. Tweek wasn't sure whether to take that as a good sign or a bad one, but he was on too much of a roll to stop now. If only this damn elevator wasn't so _small_! He wasn't used to having to look up to talk to someone, and Craig all but loomed over him, his eyes riveted on Tweek's face. Studying him, maybe. Whatever he was doing, it was stalker-ish. The luminous intensity of Craig's pale blue eyes was partly hypnotizing and partly disconcerting.

"...I'm not the one experimenting on them," Craig snapped, sounding defensive. "I'm not the one bribing Mayor McDaniels."

"Yeah, but you're allowing it to _happen_ , man! You're collecting your big fucking paychecks!" Tweek hissed.

"I don't care. Mephesto can do what he wants," Craig replied, his voice bland. "Just leave me out of it."

"You're a monster!" Tweek shouted, losing his temper. " _Just_ like your boss!"

Craig whirled on him, all pretense of calm gone. Tweek flinched as Craig slammed his hand against the wall next to his head and leaned close, so close Tweek caught another whiff of his delicious cologne.

"I am _nothing_ like him," Craig growled, his deep voice crackling with barely-restrained anger. "This is a _job_ to me, that's all."

Tweek gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, his personal space alarms flashing and sounding, like the lights on an ambulance.

"It's...it's c-called COMPLACENCY, you fucking idiot!" Tweek shouted, his voice a nervy firecracker in the closed space, "Just because you aren't the one authorizing these experiments doesn't mean _anything_! The fact that you're standing on the sidelines while all this awful shit is going on makes you JUST as responsible! WHAT DON'T YOU FUCKING GET?!"

Craig's eyes widened, and a strange flicker of emotion appeared in those fathomless blue depths before he turned away, genuinely frowning.

"...just shut up," Craig replied tonelessly. "Now."

"W-whatever, man," Tweek muttered, the scent of Craig's cologne still in his nostrils, his heart beating way too fast, "I hope you're happy in that little bubble of yours. Must be nice not to care about anyone but _yourself_!"

Craig frowned harder as the elevator finally bumped to a stop. The doors began to open, and Tweek's heart began to pound even harder, an insistent drumbeat of fear, nervousness and determination. _It's now or never, man. Now or never._

Tweek had purposely chosen the corner next to the control panel, and Craig had been too preoccupied to notice. Moving fast - before his terror could paralyze him, before he could talk himself out of doing something so reckless - Tweek leapt forward and slammed as many buttons as he could, pressing without thought or care. The doors closed, and the conveyor began climbing again.

"What the hell are you _doing_?!" Craig demanded, and Tweek heard real emotion in his voice for the first time today. Craig sounded both surprised and angry - none of which was good for him - but it was nice to hear something other than deadness in Craig's tone.

_He's got a nice voice,_ Tweek thought idly, pivoting away from the control panel, _it's too bad I'm about to punch him the throat._

Tweek balled up his fists and launched a quick left hook at Craig's face. He aimed a little too high and smacked him across the jaw, instead of landing that debilitating - and extremely painful - throat-punch he'd been hoping for. But that was okay, because Tweek had _plenty_ more where that came from. Craig's head snapped sharply to the side, and he careened back against the rear of the elevator with an _oof_! He quickly regained his balance - _too_ quickly, Tweek noticed with some dismay - but the look Craig gave him was so utterly befuddled it made the whole thing worth it.

"I've got a mean left, man," Tweek said, grinning fiercely. "I bet _that_ shit wasn't in my file!"

Craig opened and closed his mouth a few times, at a complete loss for words, before his expression went dark and stormy as a thundercloud.

"You son of a _bitch_ ," Craig snarled, his voice a warm rich baritone, filled with emotion.

"GAH, don't talk about my _Mom_ like that!" Tweek cried, jerking to avoid the hard jab Craig immediately launched in his direction.

There was very little room to maneuver. Tweek's right shoulder hit the smooth metal side of the elevator, and he jumped left to dodge a second punch. Craig's clenched fist collided the wall and bounced back with a dull but _powerful_ sound, and Tweek had just enough time to think - with a brief but clear feeling of giggly hysteria - that if that blow had landed he probably would have been spitting out teeth.

Craig was closest to the control panel now. Tweek uttered an indignant squeak as Craig hit the cancel button, abruptly halting the elevator between floors.

"Hey man, that's CHEATING!" Tweek shouted, kicking at Craig's ribs before he could do anything else. Craig crouched back to avoid it, glaring - but there just wasn't enough room for retreat. Tweek's foot buried itself in Craig's gut, and Tweek had the satisfaction of watching as Craig grimaced in pain...but only for a second.

" _Aargh_! Oh crap, man!" Tweek groaned as Craig grabbed his extended leg and yanked him off balance. He went down hard, the back of his head hitting the floor with a solid _smacking_ sound. The elevator jounced, bobbing on its cable like a yo-yo.

Tweek didn't wait to see what Craig would do next. He simply rolled, moving fast in spite the agony coalescing at the base of his skull, and sure enough, Craig's shiny black oxford came down in the place where Tweek had been just a split-second before. Craig uttered a small sound of frustration as Tweek scrambled to his feet, breathing hard, his dark green eyes surprisingly focused. Tweek made a mad grab for Craig's gun, but Craig seized his wrist before he could do much more than yank the big pistol out of its holster. For a moment they grappled, the gun held high between them, looking like dancers engaged in the most violent choreography ever.

Craig brought his knee up sharply and caught Tweek solidly in the side, forcing him to drop the Eagle. It seemed to fall in slow motion, and when it did, a single gunshot flashed out from its muzzle. By some freak twist of luck, the bullet hit the fluorescent light bulb embedded in the ceiling, showering them with plastic and glass. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air, completely overpowering the far sweeter smell of Craig's cologne. Emergency lighting immediately kicked in, a poor yellowish-brown substitute. Tweek made a face and tried to scoop the gun up off the floor. Craig saw what he was doing, and sideswiped the damned thing with his foot. The Eagle spun into a corner, out of Tweek's reach. Then he picked the skinny blond man up by the shoulders and _slammed_ him into the sealed doors with crushing force.

_Oh god, oh sweet Jesus,_ Tweek thought, his mouth gone dry as a cotton ball. Craig had pinned him like a dead butterfly against a piece of cardstock, and his warm body was pressed against his. Stomach to stomach, chest to chest, leg to leg, so close Tweek could feel every sinewy band of muscle. Tweek tried to struggle, but he knew it was a lost cause.

The fight was over, and Craig could do anything he wanted to him.

Tweek felt something foul sting the back of his throat, but he managed a weak smile.

"So, uhhh...y-you know I was just playing, man, right?"

Craig arched a brow. Their faces were scant centimeters apart. Despite the poor lighting, Tweek was so close he could see that Craig's eyes weren't just pale blue. They were a soft, powdery azure color, currently sparkling with what looked like…

...amusement?

Tweek couldn't quite believe it, but it was true. Craig was so bemused he was actually _smiling_ a little. It was wry and more than a little annoyed, yes, but it was definitely a smile. Craig was devastatingly handsome.

Tweek immediately felt disgusted with himself for even noticing such a thing.

"I must admit," Craig said, shaking his head a little, "you're pretty good. I...wasn't expecting that at all. No one has gotten the drop on me like that in years."

Craig extended an arm - careful to keep Tweek pinned in place - and hit the control panel. The stalled elevator began moving downward again.

"What were you trying to do?" Craig asked, cocking his head, looking genuinely curious.

"I - _nghn_ \- I thought maybe I'd knock you out, steal your keycard and take your gun," Tweek explained, squirming a little in discomfort. "Then I was gonna bust myself out. Ragghn...didn't work out so well."

"Well," Craig replied, with the same wry smile, "your chances of success would have been slim, but I'll give you points for trying."

"You do?" Tweek peaked fearfully up at Craig. "So, uh...any chance you'll let me go?"

"None."

The elevator dinged to a stop. Tweek found himself being flipped over, so that his cheek was pressed into the cold, hard wall. Then he heard a faint click as Craig slapped the handcuffs on his wrists.

"Fuck," Tweek muttered wearily. Craig shrugged as the elevator opened.

"You brought this on yourself," he said, but he still sounded impossibly amused.

Tweek was ushered quickly down a series of corridors. Once, they passed a lone female researcher. She didn't even glance up from her clipboard.

_They're used to this,_ Tweek thought with a sinking feeling. _They're used to people being carted down here against their will. Probably screaming and crying and begging for their lives, too._

Tweek shot Craig a dark look. "Whatever, man! Mysterion's gonna rescue me anyway! Then you'll be fucking _sorry_!"

"You sound very sure of yourself," Craig said, and to Tweek's disappointment? anger? annoyance? _some_ kind of feeling, his voice had done back to being toneless, "but it's not going to happen."

"W-what?!"

Craig dragged Tweek down a final long hallway. On either side of this hall were rooms with bars for doors. Craig paused just long enough to undo Tweek's handcuffs, and then shoved him into the nearest one. Tweek stumbled and nearly fell flat on his face, but recovered just in time to watch as Craig closed the door behind him. The sound of the lock sliding into place was the grim sound of finality.

Tweek clenched his teeth, gripping the bars as he yelled at Craig. "Fuck you, you _dick_ -weed! Just because you've never had a friend in your life, doesn't mean my friend isn't coming for me!"

"...and I suppose he'll find you using that super-secret GPS of yours."

"Yes, he'll -!" Wait. Tweek gawked at him, and Craig smirked.

"You aren't nearly as smart as you think you are," Craig continued in a monotone. "Mysterion is probably dead right now."

Tweek inhaled sharply, clutching the bars of his cell so tightly his knuckles went white. "Msyt isn't dead," he whispered vehemently. "He _isn't_!" _Kenny wouldn't...he wouldn't…_

"Hm," Craig answered noncommittally. "If I were you, I would start worrying less about him and more about myself."

"So that's it?!" Tweek snarled, so enraged his vision started to blur, "You're just going to leave me down here to starve?!"

"Why would I do something like that? No. Someone will be down here twice a day to feed you until further notice," Craig replied calmly, "so mind your manners, understand? Now, is there anything you'd like right now?"

After everything that'd just happened, the question was so _ridiculous_ Tweek couldn't help but laugh, even as frustrated tears began rolling down his flushed face.

"Yeah," Tweek snapped, without bothering to wipe them away, "go fetch me some aspirin, you bastard. And a thermos of coffee, black. Maybe you can get in here and suck my goddamn _dick_ while you're at it!"

Tweek whirled away without another word, his shoulders shaking with his sobs _. So stupid...so very stupid,_ Tweek thought, too exhausted to care that Craig was watching him cry. _I'm so sorry Kenny, I tried, I really did. Please don't be dead, man, I have no idea how long it would take for you to come back. I'm fucking counting on you._

Tweek wasn't sure how long he cried, but when he dared to look again, Craig was gone.

Sniffling, Tweek turned his attention to the cell he'd been placed in. It was surprisingly spacious and clean, but that didn't make him feel any better. There was a bed on one side and a tiny attached bathroom on the other, but not much else. Tweek shuffled into the bathroom, apathetically studying the shower (if a tall, industrial faucet with a large drain at the bottom and nothing else could indeed be called a shower) the cover-less toilet, and the mirror.

Paranoia setting in, Tweek pressed a finger to the glass, wondering if it might be a two-way mirror. When his finger touched his reflection with no gap between, he knew it wasn't.

He was still dressed in Kenny's Mysterion jumpsuit, but it was rumbled and sweaty and stained. Tweek kicked off his sneakers, unzipped the purple costume and stepped out of it with a sigh. The white tank and cargo shorts he was wearing underneath were no less sweaty, but at least he'd be a little more comfortable now.

Force of habit made Tweek glance around, even though he knew was alone. Then he picked up one of his sneakers and looked inside. There, under a flap near the toes, was another GPS. Tweek bit his lip, sniffling again. It wasn't programmed to the SIM card that he'd given Butters to give to Kenny, which made it a long-shot, but…

"Fuck you, Craig. I may not be strong, but I've always been smart," Tweek grumbled.

He remained in the bathroom, leaning against the mirror, mostly because he didn't want to face Craig again. Tweek seriously doubted if the jerk would come back with that aspirin, anyway. Or the coffee, which Tweek actually wanted more than anything else right now.

No more than fifteen or twenty minutes later, Tweek heard someone set something down by his door, then walk away.

_Jesus, no way…_

Tweek cautiously stepped outside.

Sitting beside his cell door, easy enough to pull through the gaps in the bars, were two aspirin pills on a crisply-folded napkin, a cup of coffee (not the thermos he'd requested, but a pretty big paper cup all the same, looking like it had come from some kind of cafeteria), and a bottle of water. Tweek honestly didn't know what to think. He stared at Craig's offerings like a man who had never seen such things before, feeling perplexed and suspicious and even a little grateful.

_Just accept it, man. Don't even bother trying to figure it out._

"Oh sure, you brought my coffee," Tweek mumbled to himself, pulling the items Craig had left toward him, "but where's my fucking blowjob?"


	10. Chapter 10

**7.**

**\- PART TWO -**

"Did you forget who you were talking to? I was completing my first black ops missions while you were getting slapped in ze face wit' your father's dick."

**~ ze Mole.**

* * *

A low black car was parked outside the South Park Police Department, looking strangely ominous on the mostly empty street.

It was almost noon, but the sky had a gray, brooding cast that made the day seem closer to dusk. South Park was on the brink of yet another bitter winter storm, and if the local weather reports could be believed, this one was going to be "a real humdinger". Folks had been advised to bundle up tight and stay off the roads if they could. Stark's Pond had just about frozen solid, and everywhere you looked there was snow, snow and even _more_ snow, armoring the town in a thick layer of white. A harsh wind had come howling off the mountains, turning the wind-chill into something that stripped the warmth off a person like a starving wolf stripped the meat off a bone.

In short, it was cold. _Bloody_ fucking cold. Gregory turned the heat up another notch and watched a snowplow lumber up the block with a low, droning sound, driving big piles of dirty slush before it. He had grown up in Birmingham, so he was well-used to chilly English weather — but that did not necessarily mean he liked it. The sooner they could crack this case, the better. Gregory did not much fancy freezing his ass off in this one-horse town full of slack-jawed, redneck _morons_.

Unfortunately for him, Christophe's attitude was not inspiring much confidence.

"Let's go over this one more time," Gregory said, turning to the swarthy Frenchman sitting in the passenger seat, "I know it's hard, but _do_ try to pay attention."

Christophe — better known in his professional circles as The Mole — shot him a look that could have won _awards_ in disinterest. He was a tall, lean, ruggedly handsome man with dark brown hair and even darker brown eyes that sparkled with a keen intellect. Though only twenty-six years old — or so he claimed — Christophe looked a lot older than that, possibly because he had been smoking a pack a day since he was fifteen, possibly because his unapologetically pessimistic outlook on life had taken some of the youth out of his features, and still possibly because his experiences had left him horribly jaded.

Christophe carried himself with a kind of effortless dignity that had always reminded Gregory of his old flame Craig Tucker — not that he would ever have dared to make such an open comparison between the two. There was something _warm_ about Christophe — he was approachable in a way that Craig was not — but there was no warmth about him now. His partner had been alternating between giving him the cold shoulder and being downright rude ever since they'd gotten here, and it was really starting his work his already overtaxed nerves. Christophe could be terribly childish sometimes, but they had a job to do, and Gregory was determined to be the bigger man.

Still, the fact that ze Mole had bothered to acknowledge him at all was something of a surprise. Gregory decided to take that as a good sign. He smiled triumphantly at his partner, but Christophe simply rolled his eyes and began feeling around in the pockets of his black trench coat for his cigarettes.

"As far as the police department is concerned, we are FBI agents the state dispatched to investigate the terrorist known as Mysterion," Gregory said, reaching for the file that he'd placed on top of the dashboard. He flipped it open and pulled out several grainy black and white photographs that had been taken of Mysterion over the years. Many of them were snapshots of the so-called superhero perched on rooftops like a lavender gargoyle.

"Now, I know what you're thinking, old chap," Gregory continued as Christophe nonchalantly stuck a slim white cancer stick between his lips at a jaunty angle and then reached for his lighter, "and if you're going to smoke, do please crack the window a bit, thank you — anyway, I know what you're thinking. 'Who is this Mysterion?' Is he really a terrorist, as Mayor McDaniels seems to believe?"

Christophe snapped his lighter once, twice, before it caught flame. It was silver, and etched on the side was the saying: _God is a joke._ He didn't look like he was thinking of anything, or even paying Gregory the slightest bit of attention. Christophe inhaled deeply, then lowered the window to blow a thin plume of smoke out into the chill air.

"Quite frankly, who gives a fuck. We are not really here to apprehend Mysterion, as you well know," Gregory grinned slyly. "The investigation? A clever ruse. Our history with the FBI? A _most daring_ deception! For though we are indeed agents, neither of us have never been affiliated with an American agency."

Christophe arched a brow at him. His expression remained impassive, but his eyes seemed to say _no shit, Sherlock._

"What our charmingly corrupt Miss McDaniels does not know is that we are secretly working with Interpol," Gregory chuckled smugly, "an _illustrious_ intergovernmental agency focused on battling organized crime, illicit drug production, weapons smuggling, human trafficking, money laundering, child pornography...why, the list goes on and on. I daresay we're _much_ better than the FBI."

Christophe uttered a single soft laugh.

"We crafted this brilliant cover-story in order to take our _true_ target into custody...Dr. Alphonse Mephesto," Gregory rifled through the file in his hands with dramatic flair and produced several pictures scribbled with notes, "wanted in connection with at least a dozen crimes against humanity. Quite the slippery little madman. Dr. Mephesto was based in Europe for a while, but when his... _unconventional_...scientific views made him unwelcome there, he relocated to the States and has been living off the radar ever since."

Christophe nodded. He chucked his cigarette out the window half-smoked and immediately lit another.

Gregory's amber-colored eyes narrowed dangerously. "Tracking him down has taken many long and difficult years...but I knew we'd find him eventually. He got sloppy. Men like him always do. This time, he'll _not_ be escaping justice."

Gregory looked up just in time to catch a ghost of a smile on Christophe's face, a hint of affection in his soulful brown eyes...but both were gone before he could truly appreciate it. He couldn't help feeling a tad disappointed as Christophe turned his face to the window, his expression unreadable — disappointed and something _else_ , some other uncomfortable feeling. Gregory cleared his throat in a poor effort to dispel a sudden feeling of awkwardness.

"Mephesto has been using a number of aliases in order to avoid detection and gather human test subjects," Gregory said, quickly getting back to the task at hand. "Obviously, he disguises his true intentions behind quite a bit of charity work. He established a "youth foundation" called Camp New Grace, which purported to "cure" young boys of bi and homosexual urges —" Gregory liberally applied sarcastic air quotes, " — but that's all just a charade. These boys were kidnapped, plain and simple. Not all of them, but enough. Whenever someone goes missing, the story is always the same: they ran away."

Christophe turned away from the window to give him a blank stare.

"I wondered much the same thing, old chap," Gregory replied, reading his partner's mind. "Why would _anyone_ believe this, least of all a concerned parent? But you must understand, many of these boys had a history of behavioral problems long before they were sent to Camp New Grace. People were much more willing to accept that they'd simply run off. Take this young man, for example —"

Gregory handed Christophe a few photographs. Christophe accepted them without complaint, quietly observing a picture of a smiling boy with fuzzy honey-blond hair and pretty aquamarine eyes as Gregory continued his explanations, " — Leopold A. Stotch, nineteen. Records show he ran away from home a total of four times. He was never in any significant trouble, but he spent two weeks in juvenile hall for allegedly making up a story about his uncle molesting him."

Christophe hummed softly.

"Who knows," Christophe sighed. "Leopold insisted he was telling the truth, his parents said he was just trying to get attention. Either way, it's a sad business. Then there's this lad —"

Christophe obediently cycled to the next photograph. In it, a tall young man stared straight ahead, as if he was prepping for a mugshot. He had a head full of sandy blond curls and his eyes were somehow nervous and downcast. "Bradley Alderney, seventeen. He came from a very religious household. Bradley suffered from depression and was hospitalized for two separate suicide attempts. His mother was hoping Camp New Grace would "fix" him."

Christophe tsk'ed sympathetically.

"Indeed. A most disturbing set of circumstances. Yet even more disturbing is the knowledge that Leopold and Bradley are only the most _recent_ victims. The list of boys that have gone missing in connection to Dr. Mephesto is quite long." Gregory paused, and then added in a low voice, "At the risk of stating the obvious, rescuing these boys — if any still live — is a top priority."

Christophe nodded resolutely.

"We must move swiftly, my good man." Gregory snapped the file shut. "Interpol has reason to believe that Mayor McDaniels has been covering for Mephesto's illicit activities, and in exchange he's been pumping money into the town's infrastructure. One wrong move and our cover could go up in flames. All we need are a few more pieces of good, _solid_ evidence and it's all over."

Gregory smiled brightly. "So! What do you say to that, Chris?"

Christophe exhaled a lungful of smoke, scowling. "English," he muttered. His gruff voice was flavored with a heavy French accent.

"Bah! Don't be daft, man. Your English is...ah." Gregory smiled unconvincingly. "Perfectly fine! Quite splendid, really."

Christophe sighed, leveling him with a strangely meaningful look. Gregory couldn't help thinking how nice it would be to hear his partner's voice after so much stubborn silence — until Christophe actually began to speak, that is. Then he remembered: _Ahh yes, ze Mole really is an annoying bastard…_

But perhaps that's why they got along so well.

"Fine, eez understood," Christophe grumbled, chucking the smoldering filter of his second cigarette out the window. "Did you forget who you were talking to? I was completing my first black ops missions while you were getting slapped in ze face wit' your father's dick."

"Charming."

"If any of zees bitches get in my way, I will _bury_ zeem. Ze mission is good as done."

"Now, now!" Gregory admonished, "We work for Interpol, remember? You can't go around busting lads over the head with your shovel anymore. Please show some restraint, Chris."

" _Fuck_ restraint right up her maggoty cooze! Where was your restraint when you were stabbing all those men, eh?!"

"That was _different_!" Gregory insisted, exasperated. "Good heavens man, I haven't stabbed anyone in ages!"

"You stuck a cheese knife in zat drug dealer's testicles three months ago."

"Like I said," Gregory sniffed, crossing his arms, " _ages_."

"Hmph. You neglected to mention _Craig_ in all zees," Christophe spat, making no effort to conceal his disgust. "Where eez he in your fancy little file? Or eez zat _classified_?"

 _Damn it._ Gregory pinched the bridge of his nose, willing himself to stay calm. He couldn't pretend he hadn't known from the very beginning why Christophe was so annoyed with him, but instead of coming forward and addressing the issue — like a fucking _professional,_ like a _man_ — he'd danced and dodged around it, as if Craig would magically disappear if he avoided him long enough. Christophe had every right to be upset with him for being such a pussy. Hell, Gregory was upset with _himself_. This wasn't like him, and they both knew it...but he seemed to lose all ability to reason when it came to Craig; just being _around_ him was enough to send his common sense whistling right out the window. It was...oh, so _very_ vexing.

But for the sake of their partnership, if not his own peace of mind, this _had_ to be dealt with. Gregory slumped in his seat a little, massaging his temples.

"Craig is Dr. Mephesto's head of security," he said, in what he hoped was a strictly professional tone. "Looks like Tucker's been keeping himself busy."

" _And_?"

"And," Gregory clenched his teeth, briefly. "If we run into him again...I will do my job."

"Will you?" Christophe asked, his voice sharp as a blade.

"Yes."

"Hmph. I find zat hard to believe."

"Believe what you will," Gregory muttered, turning his attention back to the street.

He could have said any number of things and made it out of this conversation relatively unscathed, but _that_ right there was the wrong thing to say. If there was anything Christophe hated as much as he hated God and dogs, it was being dismissed. His partner was silent for a moment after that, but Gregory could practically _feel_ his anger building like steam in a closed pot, just waiting to explode. And considering Christophe's violent, unpredictable temper, that didn't bode well for anyone. Was it too late to apologize?

Gregory glanced warily in the Frenchman's direction and winced at the fury he saw in those dark chocolate eyes. Yep, too late.

"I believe zat you are a fool!" Christophe snarled. "A _blind_ fool, ze worst of zeem all! Do you think zees eez a game?! Your attachment to zat blimey cocksucker will get us both killed, and for what? _For what_?! I will tell you! Ezz because you can't let go of ze past!"

"I —" A dozen denials rose to the tip of his tongue and died there. He could lie to himself just fine and get away with it, but he couldn't lie to Christophe. The man knew him too well. Gregory ran a hand through his thick, sandy blond hair in frustration — hair he carefully styled each morning — and sighed, _hard_ , as if by doing so he could expel some of his unease.

"We were all criminals once upon a time," he muttered tiredly. Gregory honestly didn't know why he was saying this — only that part of him desperately wanted Christophe to understand where he was coming from, how he felt. "You, me, Craig...we were the bad guys, and we all did things we weren't proud of. The only difference between us and Craig is that he stayed a criminal, while we had enough sense to go legitimate."

Gregory chuckled mirthlessly. "Hah...Craig probably thinks we're the biggest sellouts…"

"I don't give a flying fuck what zat son of a _bitch_ thinks!" Christophe snarled, the venom in his tone taking Gregory aback.

"Chris —"

" _Oui_ , we were criminals," Christophe continued bitterly. He slowly curled his hands into fists on his lap. "We stole things and we killed people...lots of people. I suppose zat would make us "bad guys", but you know what?! I don't regret it! Everything I've ever done in my life has been to _survive._ I can watch a man die and feel no remorse, and I'm _proud_ of zat! If deciding to dedicate myself to ze greater cause makes me a sellout, then I am proud of zat as well!"

"Chris..." Gregory said gently, laying a hand on his partner's shoulder. "Old chap...I didn't mean —"

Christophe shrugged him off. "Ze way I see it, ze only difference between us and Craig eez zat we learned from our mistakes. Eez _not_ the same as regret. If God did not want us to feel regret, then He should not have taken a shit on our lives! Zat makes God a hypocritical _bastard_!"

Gregory could hear the pain in Christophe's voice. It was unmistakable, a sea of bitter emotion the Frenchman always tried so hard to hide behind a facade of casual indifference. Gregory was too shocked to do much more than stare as Christophe lapsed into a brooding silence, frowning deeply. Christophe _detested_ weakness, in others for sure, but in himself most of all. As far as ze Mole was concerned, there was only one way to get through life, and that was with your head down and your shoulders up, middle finger held high. Breaking down was not an option. Seeking comfort from another person was _not an option_. Christophe had always seemed larger than life, a confident and competent professional, but right now he just looked so tired, so _angry_. He was only a man, and even men like Christophe could only take so much.

Seeing him like this, raw as an exposed nerve, was surreal. It made Gregory feel strange, _protective_ somehow.

_Chris…_

Gregory started to reach for him, without really knowing if he was going to punch Christophe in the face or give him a pat on the back, if he was going to pull him into the fiercest bear hug he could manage or kiss him until they were both breathless, if he was going to scream himself hoarse trying to make Christophe understand or concede defeat and finally let go of the past; maybe he wanted to do all of those things, maybe none of them. But before Gregory could decide one way or another, Christophe pinned him with a cold glare that effectively halted him in his tracks.

The casual indifference was back. The moment was gone.

" _Non, je ne regrette rien,_ " Christophe growled. It was times like this when Gregory really wished he'd taken the time to learn French. "So you and Craig can go fuck yourselves! Eez what you were planning to do anyway, I'm sure!"

Gregory let that comment settle in for a second or two, a dark scowl etched across his face, looking as if he'd just swallowed a spoonful of awful-tasting medicine. It was hardly fair, but Gregory had no choice but to gather his pride — what was left of it, anyway — and move on. Christophe had made his point.

"I am not going to let anyone stand in the way of our mission," Gregory said softly, "not even Craig. I _will_ kill him if I have to, make no mistake."

"Good." Christophe's voice was flat.

"...you never particularly cared for him, did you?"

Christophe met his gaze, briefly. "No."

No further elaboration. Not that Gregory had been expecting any. He leaned back and cut the engine, feeling much too weary for this hour of the day.

"...We should head inside. Chief Black should have finished wrapping up his affairs by now."

"Ze bitch mayor suspended him," Christophe commented. "Why?"

"Hm? Oh!" Gregory couldn't believe he hadn't mentioned this before. "Some blokes hijacked a local news station last night, demanding that Mysterion turn himself in. I haven't had a chance to review the tapes myself yet, but that whole business gives me a bad feeling. In any event, Chief Black cooperated with Mysterion in order to free the hostages, and was suspended for it. Between you and me, I think they were just looking for a reason to get rid of him. Token Black is an upright man of the law, I hear. The sort of man who will not be bought, for any reason."

"Mayor Bitch eez afraid ze Chief of Police will become a nuisance."

"Indeed. We'll have to keep an eye on Mr. Black, just in case McDaniels is thinking of arranging an —" his air quotes were almost comical in their extravagance, " _accident_."

Christophe toyed with lighting another cigarette, then thought better of it. "Do you think zees Mysterion might be involved with Mephesto?"

Gregory made a face. "Perhaps. I thought he was just some random lunatic myself, but...it _is_ possible. If there's a connection, we _will_ find it."

" _Oui_. We best not waste time."

Christophe opened the passenger side door, then hesitated, not looking at him. "Greg."

Gregory blinked, a little startled. "Yes?"

"I...fuck." Christophe quickly shoved another cigarette between his teeth, shaking his head. When he spoke again, his voice was an agitated grumble, "I wanted to apologize for my earlier comment. Perhaps I was too harsh."

 _What?_ Gregory thought, befuddled. _Which comment? And since when do *you* apologize to *me*?_

But Christophe was gone before he could get any sort of clarification on that, slamming the car door behind him. Gregory lingered in the driver's seat for a moment or two, feeling as if someone had just handed him a pop quiz he was in no way prepared for.

"No worries, old chap," Gregory muttered to the empty vehicle, before he got out to follow his partner up the snow-covered steps of the brick building which housed the South Park PD.

After all, they had a job to do.

* * *

Butters had a headache.

And not just any headache, but a horrible migraine that had settled at the base of his skull and was currently shooting flares of pain directly into his temples. He kept trying to tell himself that it was just stress — and after what he'd been through he supposed it might even be true — but Butters simply couldn't shake the feeling that his pounding head had a darker reason behind it. What if Dr. Mephesto had rigged him to explode like a watermelon dropped from a ten-story building if he got too far away? What if this headache was the result of a malignant brain tumor or — worst of all — what if he'd never actually escaped and was simply _imagining_ this? He could be tied to a gurney table in a drug-induced stupor _right this second_ , dreaming. And he'd never know, he'd never…

Butters tried to dispel that thought before it could take root and do significant damage, but the damage was already done. A sudden feeling of unreality washed over him like a tidal wave, and there was nothing to hold on to, nothing to ground him. Had he always been so utterly alone? Not always, surely...but his mind drew a blank when he tried to remember what it felt like to have someone by his side, someone he could depend on.

_Bradley was there. He always made me feel special..._

Oh...but it hurt so much to think about Bradley.

Butters glanced around the room, feeling dizzy — almost feverish — and his eyes soon landed on Mysterion _(Kenny, his name is Kenny_ ) and Bebe. He could creep on them perfectly from where he stood without being seen, but they were both so engrossed in their conversation he doubted they have noticed him even if he'd been dancing right under their noses.

Butters watched with no real interest, just to have something to do, something to distract him from his aching heart and throbbing head. Bebe's full lips were moving, and despite her confident stance there was something nervous about the way she brushed her strawberry-blond ringlets away from her lovely face.

Butters quietly observed Kenny's startled expression, the way Bebe's demeanor had shifted from playful to serious. She said something and he said something, and before Butters knew it they were _kissing_. Kenny leaned down to cup Bebe's face tenderly in his large hands, pressing her against him in a way that screamed intimacy. Butters frowned, glancing away in annoyance. Were they seriously making out at a time like this? Did they _not_ have much more important things to do right now?!

 _What's the rush?_ a voice, cold and dead, hissed somewhere deep inside. _It's not like you have anywhere to go! I hope you aren't dumb enough to crawl back to your parents' place!_

Butters shivered, hugging himself. This wasn't something he'd wanted to think about, but what was the use of avoiding it? It was true. He had absolutely nowhere to go. If he'd known what to do next — had even the _foggiest_ idea — that fact wouldn't have been nearly so terrifying. But he didn't know, he didn't know anything. He wasn't smart, he wasn't cool, he wasn't streetwise or resourceful, confident or ruthless, he wasn't savvy enough to "wing it", didn't know the first thing about being on his own; at the end of the day he was the same ol' Leopold Stotch, just a stutterin' Melvin the other kids had never wanted to play with. Maybe he was a little tougher now, a little wiser, more cautious, but what did that amount to?

Butters chuckled mirthlessly. For the first time in his life he could do whatever he wanted to do, but all he really wanted to do was hide. The future was full of possibilities, but he had forgotten or lost all the things that'd once made it bright.

_College. Remember college. The SATs you studied so hard for, the essay you were writing for NYU._

Oh sure, he remembered. It was like recalling something that had happened to him a lifetime ago, on a different planet, another universe. The idea of college was almost laughable now.

_The old me would have been excited about having to start all over. He would have looked at this as a chance to do things differently._

True. But the new Butters just wasn't that optimistic. Not anymore.

Butters massaged his temples, grimly fighting off a sudden wave of nausea. He would figure it out, he had to. The important thing was that he wasn't back there...

(— _maybe, you could be dreaming, remember?_ the dead voice cackled from somewhere in Butters's mental dungeon, the voice of all his fears, _you could be dreaming, you could be_ —)

...no, he wasn't back there! He would hold on to his freedom. For now, it was more than enough.

"Hi," someone chirped behind him.

It was a simple greeting spoken in a perfectly friendly tone of voice, but Butters was so wound up it might as well have been a blood-curdling scream. He jumped and the skin along his arms broke out in goosebumps, but when he whirled around and saw it was just the kid from earlier — the kid with the curly red hair and the super-thick glasses — he took a deep breath and calmed down a little.

_Gosh, Butters. Get a grip already._

"Oh hey, I didn't mean to scare you," the kid said, smiling brightly.

"Wuh-uh, you didn't s-scare me," Butters muttered, even though he had and they both knew it.

"Umm...okay. My name is Dougie," the kid said. "What's your name?"

Butters stared at the guy. He didn't want to answer, but he was thrown off-balance somehow by such a straightforward introduction. "...Butters."

"Huh?"

"Leopold," Butters grit out. He hated his first name, but he was pretty sure he'd throw up if he had to explain why he went by Butters, just because.

"Leopold?" Dougie considered that for a second. "Do people call you Leo, for short?"

No one had ever called him Leo. It was almost worse than Leopold. "...Sure. W-why not."

"Leo...no, Leopold," Dougie said firmly, as if he'd decided that Leo was just too silly, even for him, "Kevin took those guys you were with in the back to see the really good shit. I know he doesn't look like it, but Kevin's a mad scientist when it comes to this stuff."

"Good for him." Butters glanced away, relieved to see that Kenny and Bebe had stopped tonguing each other down long enough to do whatever they'd come here to do. Fucking _finally_.

 _Ah yes,_ the dead voice snickered. _The sooner Kenny rescues Tweek, the sooner he can dump you off at the nearest bus station._

"So uh, what happened to your shirt?"

Butters looked down. He was wearing the same dirty, blood-stained shirt — the blood now dried to a dark maroon color reminiscent of mud — that he'd been wearing for God-knows-how-long, but he couldn't very well walk around in Tweek's Ninja Turtle pajamas. The clothes on his back were the only things he owned. Butters might have been depressed, but he simply couldn't bring himself to care about something so trivial.

"...I dunno. I fell or s-somethin'." Butters muttered.

"Huh. Are you from around here?" Dougie asked, unperturbed by Butters's lack of interest.

"No."

"Are you from Texas?"

"Wuh-uh, the hell kinda question is _that_?" Butters snapped. Suddenly he was beyond irritated, at Dougie, at himself, at everything and everyone. _This isn't fair...why am I here while Bradley isn't? Why?_

"I didn't mean to offend you or anything!" Dougie quickly replied, his eyes widening. "It's just...your accent..."

"I know I sound like a countrified hick an' all, but I'm not from Texas," Butters snarled, turning away, "that's jus' stupid!"

"I —"

"It's really n-none of your fuckin' business!"

"I'm s-sorry," Dougie stammered, scuffing his feet. "I was only curious...I like your accent..."

 _Butters, sweet chile, why're you bein' so mean?_ a second voice lamented softly in his head. Butters recognized it immediately. _The nephew I knew hated it when people were mean. He always tried to be nice to everyone he met, no matter what._

_Aunt Nellie..._

His eyes stung. Butters blinked back tears, wondering how she had reacted to the news of his disappearance, if she thought he was gone forever or was still holding out some faint hope that he might come back one day. Deep down, Butters knew his parents had loved him, but with Aunt Nellie he never had to question it, her affection was unconditional.

_I'm so sorry Aunt Nellie. You married a monster and I'm so sorry. Please don't hate me._

Butters forced himself to look at Dougie, still scuffing his feet, and bit his lip shyly.

"Wuh-um, I didn't mean t'snap at you...I'm real sorry, I'm jus'...tired." Butters tried to smile, but he just didn't have the energy for it. "S-sorry."

"Oh." Dougie perked up a bit, grinning. "Nah, it's okay! Um, you do look a little pale..."

"My head hurts," Butters mumbled.

God, what an understatement _that_ was. Butters's head felt like it had been placed in a vise. It was funny — he could recover from burns and lacerations and even _gunshot_ wounds with no problem, but a migraine was apparently where his body drew the line.

(— _unless there's something wrong with you there's probably something wrong with you you've never been lucky never been lucky never been —_ )

His vision had begun to blur around the edges. _Maybe I really am about to explode?_ The thought made Butters giggle madly. Dougie gave him a strange look, part weirded-out and part concerned, his eyes magnified to twice their actual size behind his thick lenses. _I was going to major in child psychology._ That made him giggle even harder.

"Umm...Leopold? Are you okay?"

_No, I'm not okay. I don't think I'll ever be okay._

"Leopold?"

Butters opened his mouth to tell Dougie to fuck off, but it was as if his tongue had been paralyzed. All sensory information began fading out, slowly but surely, as if he was being pulled underwater. Butters felt weightless, light-headed, and realized rather belatedly that maybe he ought to sit down.

"I'm...I need to..." Butters gestured weakly. Dougie looked both puzzled and worried.

"H-huh?"

 _Just forget it._ Butters didn't sit down so much as he sort of folded up and crumpled to the floor. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. It would be better if he just disappeared forever.

"Oh shit!" Dougie squeaked, running off. "Kevin! Kevvvin! You guys!"

 _I had hamsters,_ Butters thought, floating. _They were so cute..._

He fainted. Butters didn't realize this until after the fact, inexplicably waking up in Kenny's arms.

He couldn't have been out for more than a minute, two minutes, tops, because when he opened his eyes, he was in the exact same spot and his head still hurt like a bitch. Butters could hear Dougie gibbering excitedly in the background —

"I don't know what happened, I was talking to him and he just fell over —"

— followed by even more excited gibbering —

"I'll go get some water —"

"Mysterion — I mean, _Kenny_ — look my friend, maybe this isn't such a good idea, doing this right now I mean —"

"No Kevin, _now_. Go get the stuff. I'll stay with Butters."

— but it was Kenny he focused on, mostly because the guy was sort of cradling him in his lap.

 _He got here fast,_ Butters thought, still too dazed to move.

Kenny still smelled a bit like alcohol, a faintly bitter scent that had always reminded Butters of his Uncle Budd. He couldn't help but wonder when was the last time the guy had slept, because huge bags had formed under his sapphire-colored eyes, giving the unmasked superhero a decidedly hangdog look. Bags or no, there was no denying how good-looking he was. Kenny must have been exhausted, painfully hungover and incredibly stressed-out on top of everything else, but he was still so attractive, ridiculously attractive. Butters had no idea how he managed it.

 _It's his eyes,_ Butters mused. Kenny's eyes were so much older than the rest of him, time-tested and careworn somehow. If his Aunt Nellie had been here, she would have said Kenny was one of those folks who had _old souls_. Butters never really knew what that meant.

Kenny smiled in relief when Butters opened his eyes. He had a great smile, but staring at those full lips and pearly white teeth — being this _close_ to him — made Butters feel deeply uncomfortable for some reason. He tried to squirm his way out of Kenny's grasp, but his movements were feeble and uncoordinated at best.

Clearly, this day couldn't get any better.

"Whoa there, Buttercup," Kenny said gently. "Take it easy, okay?"

"...I thought I told ya not to call me that," Butters mumbled, flushing a little. "Let g-go of me, jerk!"

Kenny grinned, and brushed away a few strands of hair that had become plastered to his forehead with sweat. Butters flushed even harder.

"And what if I don't?" Kenny teased, his voice low, almost a whisper. Those dark blue eyes of his sparkled in amusement. "You must not be feeling _too_ bad, considering you still have the energy to call me names."

Butters all but sputtered in rage, but before he could form a response Bebe came jogging up, kneeling down with a bottle of water in her hand.

"I grabbed this from the vending machine outside," she said, pressing the bottle to Butters's cheek. The smooth plastic surface was blessedly cool. "Is he going to be okay?"

"I'll be f-fine! I jus' got a little dizzy, is all!" Butters said quickly, ashamed by the fuss he'd caused. He struggled to his feet, ignoring his aches and pains. "D-don't worry about me!"

"Don't be silly!" Bebe admonished, narrowing her pale green eyes. "You've been through a lot, now settle down and drink this!"

 _Lady, you don't know the half of it_ , Butters thought sullenly. He didn't dare say that out loud, though. There was something earthy about Bebe, something very strong and no-nonsense. Butters got the feeling that one minute she'd be all hugs and kisses and cooking breakfast wearing nothing but lacy red lingerie, and the next minute you'd be all _OH MY GOD IT BURNS, BABY I'M SORRRYYY!_

Like with Dougie, her straightforwardness off-balanced him. Bebe held the water bottle out to him and Butters accepted it meekly, stealing shy glances at her face. Her pale green eyes were kind and her smile was warm, almost motherly. To say that she was beautiful would have been stating the obvious, mentioning that she had it slam-bam _bangin'_ going on would have been trite. All those things were true, but it was the kindness in her eyes that struck Butters the most, gave her a glow. She seemed like a really nice girl.

Which, in Butters's opinion, begged the question of what she was doing with a guy like Kenny. There was really no accounting for taste with some people.

"Thank you," Butters mumbled. He fumbled with the cap and took a single, measured sip of water. It tasted like heaven. He sipped a little more, and felt infinitesimally better.

Bebe's smile widened. "You're welcome, Butters. Try to take care of yourself, okay?"

 _Gee whiz, she has the perkiest boobies I've ever seen._ Butters blushed hard and glanced down at his dirty sneakers, feeling more awkward than he could remember feeling in a while.

He found a little relief from the situation in the form of Kevin, who sprinted around a corner just then (Dougie following close on his heels) carrying a backpack in his left hand by the straps. Butters thought he looked kind of worried for a guy who had been so annoyingly enthusiastic just a few minutes earlier. It didn't exactly bode well.

"Here," Kevin said, handing the backpack over to Kenny, "that should be more than enough. Now remember —"

"I _got_ it," Kenny replied impatiently, tossing the backpack over one shoulder. "Clock's ticking, dude."

Kevin nodded solemnly, rubbing his hands together. "Well...I've done all I can do, then. Mysterion, I wish you luck —"

"You're driving, Kevin. Bebe's going home."

Kevin looked mystified. "I...excuse me, come again?"

Kenny turned away to give Kevin some time to process that on his own. "Butters...are you sure you're up for this?"

Butters didn't know how to answer that. If Kenny was asking whether or not he was _physically_ up for this, the answer was probably a no. Butters felt like dog crap, _crusty_ old dog crap. But mentally…

"Y-yea, I'm fine." He could handle this. He could handle _anything_. Nothing frightened him anymore, except maybe the future.

Kenny studied his face for a moment or two, then nodded. "Right. Looks like Tweek's GPS coordinates are still coming from that warehouse outside of town. We better get going."

"Right now?" Bebe asked, glancing trepidatiously out the workshop's high windows. It was dark and gray and snowy, every tree stripped bare and bowed over in an icy wind. Just looking out there made Butters shiver.

"Yes," Kenny replied, his expression stony. "This is the only thing I have to work with right now, Bebe. If he's there, I'm getting him back, and if it's a trap, I'm going to find out where they've taken him. Either way, I'm _not_ fucking waiting. If Tweek…" Kenny swallowed visibly. "If something happens to him because of me…"

Kenny didn't finish that sentence, but then again, he didn't have to. Butters could see the guilt and the worry written all over his face. It made him dislike the guy just a little bit less. A _little_ bit.

Bebe nibbled on her bottom lip, looking as if there was something she wanted to say. Whatever it was, she kept it to herself.

"Look, about the driving thing…" Kevin began nervously, but Kenny whirled on him before he could up with an excuse, firmly clapping his hands down Kevin's lean shoulders.

"Kevin," Kenny said solemnly, looking directly into Stoley's startled dark brown eyes, "I _need_ you, dude. I can't do this without you. I'm not asking as Mysterion, I'm asking as a friend. As a partner. Please?"

 _Partner? Gee, I wonder how Tweek'd feel about that,_ Butters thought, arching a brow _._ But Kevin seemed to light up, a big, goofy grin spreading across his face.

"Partner? As in... _superhero sidekick_?" Kevin asked, his tone hopeful.

"Um…" Kenny looked uncomfortable. "Yeees. Sure, dude."

"Too awesome," Kevin replied dreamily, before he straightened up and nodded resolutely. "Of _course_ , Mysterion! Whatever you need! Dougie, can you lock up the shop?"

"Uh-huh," Dougie pushed his glasses up on his nose and smiled. "Good luck out there, Kev!"

"Kenny," Bebe murmured, "be careful, baby. _Please_."

The rest involved a rather uneventful trip out to Kevin's car — a green Camry — and all three of them piled in without saying much. Bebe stood in the doorway of the _Kids 4 Science_ workshop, smiling a sad, sweet smile as Kevin fussed with his seatbelt and then pulled out of the parking lot. Dougie stood beside her, grinning excitedly, waving his arms.

 _Dougie. I never even got your last name_ , Butters thought, watching as Bebe and Dougie drifted farther and farther away. _Thanks for talking to me. Nobody's talked to me in a really long time._

The idea popped into Butters's head to wave back, but just as he was about to lift his hand, Kevin turned a corner and they were gone.

"This is _so_ cool," Kevin enthused, glancing over his shoulder at Butters. "Don't you agree?"

"Keep your eyes on the road, dude," Kenny said tersely.

Butters frowned, then turned away from the window to stare blankly down at his lap.

* * *

Kenny cinched his mask behind his head, pulled the hood of his orange parka up, and then zipped his jacket shut with a sound that seemed overly loud in the stillness of Kevin's car.

Kevin had parked in a blind alley created between two buildings — one an old textile mill and the other a print shop — and across the street, guarded by a high fence with a snarl of barbed wire looped across the top, was the warehouse that Tweek's GPS signal had been coming from.

Kenny didn't like the look of this place. They were smack-dab in the middle of South Park's historic industrial district, an area that had been converted some fifty-odd years ago into factories and train yards and lonely highways that would take you out to Denver, Colorado Springs and all points in-between. The train tracks stood empty, the lines covered in snow, and the warehouse loomed big and dark and brooding, the fence that surrounded it festooned with a single large sign:

**[PRIVATE PROPERTY.]**

**[NO TRESPASSING.]**

Kenny saw no signs of life. He swept his eyes up and down the street, but most of the factories and assorted businesses had long since closed their doors in lieu of the storms. The warehouse's parking lot was vacant. At Kenny's direction, Kevin had circled the block twice, but the mass of armed men Kenny thought would be lying in wait for him — like they had back at his former secret base — were nowhere to be found. It was quiet.

 _Too_ fucking quiet.

"Maybe they're all inside," Kevin said in a hushed whisper, the gravity of the situation having stripped away some of his boyish excitement.

Maybe. But if they were, why hadn't a guard been posted at the doors? Where were their _cars_?

"Wuh-uh, if they're inside, then where are their cars?" Butters replied in an equally hushed whisper, mirroring Kenny's thoughts exactly. "I don't like this, n-not one bit!"

Kenny glanced at the blond-haired boy, who was clutching the back of Kevin's headrest so hard his knuckles had gone white. Butters's cute face was pinched and pale, his pretty aquamarine eyes filled with quiet dread. Kenny hoped he hadn't made another mistake in bringing Butters along. Spontaneous regeneration or no, Butters needed a lot more rest than he was willing to admit, both physical and mental — but Butters kept insisting that he was okay, and Kenny didn't have the time or the inclination to worry about him.

"Mmph hm, mnp mnnpn mn."

Kevin and Butters turned on him simultaneously. " _What_?"

Kenny sighed internally and lowered the zipper on his jacket a little. "I _said_ , fuck it, I'm going in."

Kevin nodded, a few jerky up and down head movements that were probably supposed to be a lot more casual than they looked.

"Keep your radio on," Kenny said, tapping the other half of the two-way set that Kevin had let him borrow, "and whatever happens, I want you two to _stay put_. Got it?"

Kevin nodded again. "Got it."

Butters fidgeted a little, but eventually he nodded as well. " 'Kay."

"If things sound like they're getting a little hairy…" Kenny paused, thinking.

Nobody'd ever believed him when he said he couldn't die — nobody except Tweek and Karen — but their belief didn't change things. For a while, Kenny had figured that if he could just get someone to _believe_ him, to take him _seriously_ , then maybe they'd remember. But it just didn't work like that. It didn't seem to matter one fucking little bit.

"You...can't _die_?" Tweek repeated slowly the first time Kenny told him, his expression a study in incredulity. "Jesus man...are you serious?"

"Look dude, I know how it sounds," Kenny said, shaking a cigarette out of the pack he kept in his shirt pocket, "but it's _true_. I'm serious...fuck, this is the most serious I've ever been about anything."

Kenny could clearly remember the way Tweek had stared him, his brows furrowed over his dark green eyes. Tweek had a _very_ expressive face. It was one of the many things Kenny liked about the guy, only he'd never told him, because he knew Tweek would just get weird about it. His partner was the _worst_ when it came to accepting compliments. Tweek always got flustered and defensive whenever he was paid any sort of attention — but he craved attention all the same, so go figure. Kenny had seen the way his expressions had shifted, knowing that it was crazy, crazy even for _him_ , and yet wanting to believe Kenny anyway. Because they were friends, and fuck...they hadn't even known each other all that long by this point, but they'd already been through some shit together, the kind of shit that turns casual acquaintances into life-long comradeship.

When Tweek's face relaxed, Kenny relaxed. Tweek probably thought he was being real subtle, but he was so easy to read. All his emotions were always right there on the surface.

"Okay...ngh, I believe you, Ken…" Tweek said, running his fingers through the thick platinum blond hair at the nape of his neck. "So, er, with this dying...thing...do you rise from the dead like a zombie, or…?"

"Dude, no!" Kenny had laughed, actually _laughed_ , more out relief than anything else. Tweek believed him. And he could recall thinking: _Maybe this time...just this once, somebody will remember._ He supposed he couldn't be blamed for feeling hopeful.

"It's like...shit, it's hard to explain," Kenny said, ashing his cigarette on the floor of their former secret base while Tweek watched him warily. "I just sort of... _wake up_. And it doesn't matter how I died before, 'cause I'm always right back in my body like nothing ever happened. I used to wake up in my bed back at my parents' place, but now it doesn't matter. I could pop up on a park bench or a street corner somewhere, but I'm always close to home. Whatever place I currently consider my home, anyway. Like the base? Or when were we staying at that place on Main?"

"I...okay." Tweek's expression had shifted again. Kenny could see his partner struggling to suspend his disbelief, wanting more than anything to be supportive. Kenny really loved the guy in that moment.

"Look, I'll prove it!" Kenny said, grabbing one of Tweek's nines. He stood back and pressed the barrel of the gun to his temple, ignoring Tweek's wide-eyed dismay.

"JESUS CHRIST KENNY, DON'T —!"

"Try to remember," Kenny said, "please?"

Then he pulled the trigger.

Looking back on it, killing himself right in front of his best friend definitely wasn't his smartest move. But Kenny had been desperate...and hopeful. He couldn't forget that part. But when he got back, practically bubbling with excitement, Tweek's blank expression said it all.

"Hey man, did you step out for a bit?" Tweek asked, never looking up from his computer, his fingers moving at the speed of light, filling the base with the sharp _tac-tac-tac_ sound of his rapid typing.

"You don't…" Kenny blinked, swallowed, took a deep breath. "...you don't remember…?"

"Remember?" Tweek glanced up at him, concern flashing briefly in his eyes. "Ummm...was there something I was supposed to remember?"

 _Yes. Me dying. Me blowing my brains out right in front of you._ But Kenny just shook his head, filled with a feeling that was too dark to be called disappointment, too hopeless to be called depression.

"No. Nevermind, dude."

As far as Tweek was concerned, he had only been gone for a few hours. But Kenny was in Hell for three days.

That was the thing about dying, one of the many unpleasant things Kenny had discovered. Time...time was different in Hell. It was _faster_.

A couple of days in the Pit were only worth a couple of hours on Earth. A few months chilling with the Anti-Christ only bought him a few weeks topside. Kenny didn't know — nor did he want to know — how long he'd have to be in Hell to make years go by in the land of the living.

They didn't call it an _eternity_ for nothing.

Kenny could control his resurrections to a certain degree. When he didn't feel like going back — and sometimes he didn't, sometimes even Hell was more comforting than the shit he had to deal with when he was alive — Kenny just stayed. It was a state of being he couldn't quite describe.

But no matter what, he always had to go back. Always. Damien would look at him with those terrifying eyes of his, eyes that wept blood and cried smoke at the same time.

"Time for you to skedaddle, buckaroo."

 _But I don't want to._ Talking in Hell didn't exactly involve moving your lips and forming words. It was different. It was purer. It was another thing Kenny couldn't quite describe.

Damien just grinned. His teeth were fangs.

" _Leave_ —" and Kenny would be hurtled right back into his body. Always. It was as if the universe had hit a reset button.

Eventually, Tweek learned that any explained absences from him were probably because he was dead. But he never remembered...no one did.

"Mysterion?" Kevin asked softly.

Kenny blinked, startled out of his reverie. Butters and Kevin were both staring at him, and he realized with a jolt that he'd kind of drifted off.

"If things get hairy, I want you two to get out of here." Kenny said firmly.

"You want us to _abandon_ you?" Kevin sputtered.

"I'll be fine," Kenny replied harshly. "Just take Butters back to Bebe's place, and _wait_ for me."

Butters scowled. "B-but —!"

Kenny climbed out of the car and slammed the door before Butters could finish his protest. Tweek had taken his last lavender jumpsuit, but he always seemed to have extra masks on hand. It wasn't quite as heroic as he would like, but in this instance it would have to do.

"Right," Mysterion muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Let's do this shit."

Mysterion tightened the straps on the backpack he was wearing and then jogged across the street, head lowered, looking a bit like a punk. He took one last look around when he reached the barbed-wire fence, then leapt up, navigating his way to the other side in less than five seconds. Mysterion was as dexterous as he was flexible — which was pretty awesome, both standing up and on flat surfaces.

Under normal circumstances, Mysterion would have been _a lot_ stealthier with his approach, but he didn't much think it mattered this time. He crouched when he hit the cold, wet concrete on the other side, his mouth dry and his heart pounding, feeling hyper-alert. The coke had long since worn off and his hangover was a distant concern. With a little less than eight hours of sleep in the last two days, he was running on pure adrenaline.

— _no guards at the door but it would be stupid to go in that way I better find a window_ —

These thoughts went through his head in a flash. Mysterion skulked through the parking lot, moving quickly, and ended up on the west side of the warehouse. He shimmied up a metal rain gutter that had been welded to one side of the building — his fingers going numb at the contact — and carefully eased his way over to a large, narrow windowsill. He took a moment to peer inside, pressing his nose to the glass, but the warehouse was pitch-dark save for a few rectangular patches of weak light shining in from the other windows. Nothing moved.

Not good. Not good at all.

Mysterion pulled one sleeve of his jacket over his knuckles and punched through the glass. He made a hole big enough for him to climb through and jumped down about ten feet to the floor. His hands stung when he landed, bits of glass digging into his palms, but he barely noticed.

The warehouse was filled with the smell of dust and too much silence.

Mysterion fumbled on his mini-flashlight and aimed it around the room. And there, standing amidst the boxes and the broken-down machinery, was a person.

"Tweek?" Mysterion whispered, but he knew that was just wishful thinking. This person wasn't tall enough...and Tweek _hated_ the dark.

"Hello?" Mysterion barked, his gruff voice echoing off the rafters. "Who are you? Turn around!"

He did.

* * *

Kevin watched until Mysterion had disappeared around the side of the building, and then there was nothing else to do but wait and listen to the static crackling over the two-way radio. He knew this situation was serious, and that they were probably breaking a ton of laws — which ones he had no idea, but a _ton_ of them, surely — by helping a dangerous vigilante, but _holy crap-baskets_ this was so cool. Kevin felt like he was in an episode of _Young Justice_ maybe, or one of those one-off comics where two unlikely heroes team up to save the day.

Yeah. It was awesome.

"Kevin?"

Kevin jumped a little, startled by Butters's voice. The kid was so quiet. For a moment, he'd forgotten he was there. Kevin swiveled around to look at Butters huddled in the back seat, smiling a little. Butters didn't smile back.

"If ya don't mind me askin', how old are you?"

 _Eh?_ The question was so unexpected it took Kevin a second to remember. "Twenty-two?"

Butters nodded. Kevin waited for some addendum to that, his brows raised questioningly, but Butters just stared him, silent, his big blue-green eyes veiled somehow.

"Well, how old are _you_?" Kevin asked, genuinely curious.

"Eighteen."

Eighteen? Huh. He seemed older than that. Kevin drummed his fingers along the steering wheel. "So! How do you know Mysterion?"

Butters shrugged and glanced away.

...Oookay. So he wasn't much for conversation, apparently. Whatever, he could respect that. Kevin sighed and fiddled with the two-way radio, but all he got was more static. Being a superhero sidekick was surprisingly uneventful...

"Hey." Butters again. What was it _this_ time?

"Hm?"

"Are _The Kardashians_ still on TV?"

"Uhhh…" Kevin rubbed his chin, almost as puzzled by this question as he'd been by the age thing. "I don't really watch reality TV, my friend, so I'm not sure. I think so. Could just be reruns, though. Why? Do you like Kim Kardashian?"

"I do," Butters replied immediately, without a hint of sarcasm. "She's one of the prettiest women in the world, a-and she's got a booty like a mountain of vanilla puddin'."

Kevin nearly choked trying to hold in his laughter. A few chuckles escaped anyway, earning him a sharp glance from Butters, as if the boy was trying to decide if he was being laughed _at_. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he soon relaxed, even smiled, the vaguest upturning of his lips.

"So, you must be an ass-man," Kevin replied, grinning a little.

Butters flushed a little, becoming defensive. "S-so what if I am?"

"Relax, friend! Asses are good. In a world overrun by violence and corruption, a nice, round ass is surely a sign that there is still hope and beauty in the universe."

Butters started to giggle, then stopped, looking shocked, as if he hadn't done that in a while. "Oh...heh. Y-yeah, I guess so."

Kevin opened his mouth to reply, and that's when the two-way radio finally crackled to life.

" _Guys,"_ Mysterion's deep voice ground out, _"there's someone in here."_

Kevin and Butters both snapped to attention.

* * *

"Hello?" Mysterion tried again, keeping his flashlight trained on the figure in the gloom.

He whipped out his nightstick and held it ready just in case, but this person — whoever he was — didn't move an inch, even when Mysterion shined his flashlight directly into his eyes. He was a little above average height, with a mop of curly jet-black hair, a somewhat sallow face and a large nose. He was posed like a mannequin, one arm held out as if he was offering something, his expression blank, his eyes vacant. He was dressed in what looked like a hospital gown and slippers, drab grayish-blue, and there was a large red ' **X'** tattooed on his forehead. He looked to be about Butters's age, maybe a little older.

Mysterion halted several feet away from the young man, his mouth dry, his heart beating out a jerky rhythm in his chest. The hell was going on? Why was he just standing in the dark, in this abandoned warehouse? Why hadn't he _moved_?

"The fuck?" he muttered, confused and unnerved. This was so bizarre Mysterion briefly considered turning around and getting right the fuck out of here, but curiosity, as well as his natural inclination to help people, won out over the goosebumps slowly creeping up and down his arms. He took a step closer, then another, ready to bolt or defend himself at a moment's notice. When he was a little less than five feet away the young man suddenly inclined his head, as if he'd been activated, as if he'd been waiting for Mysterion to step within a certain radius. Mysterion froze as the young man blinked at him...and then opened his extended hand.

There, resting in the middle of his palm, was Tweek's GPS.

"Who are you?" Mysterion demanded sharply. "Are you hurt? Are you with Craig? Fucking answer me!"

But the young man made no reply, just continued to blink at him, very slowly. He looked like he was trying to convey some sort of Morse code through eye blinks alone.

_Goddamn it._

Mysterion sighed and lowered his flashlight a little, his eyes fixed on the GPS in in the young man's hand. Tweek wasn't here — that much was obvious. As for the rest, well...Mysterion had no idea what this was supposed to be. No fucking clue at all.

"Don't worry. I'm going to get you some help," Mysterion muttered, reaching out take the device away from the young man. His fingers brushed him...slightly. The young man stopped blinking and his eyes widened...widened...became impossibly huge. His mouth split in a strange smile. Mysterion hissed and tried to snatch his hand away. His reflexes were fast, but this young man was a whole lot faster.

He seized Mysterion's wrist. His grip was like iron, clammy and cold as ice.

* * *

"Mysterion!" Kevin shouted into the two-way radio, his voice shaking a little. "C'mon my friend, give us a status report!"

"Is it Tweek?" Butters bounced forward, grabbing the back of Kevin's headrest again. "Did he find Tweek? _Ask_ him!"

"Is Tweek there?!" Kevin asked. The radio crackled, but there was no answer.

* * *

Mysterion twisted in the young man's grip, too surprised to be afraid. When that didn't work, he yanked at his fingers with his free hand and tried to pry him off that way, but there was just no _budging_ him at all; the young man held on, tenacious as a pit bull.

" _The fuck is wrong with you?!_ " Mysterion snarled, hoping he could talk some sense into him, hoping he didn't have to use his nightstick. The young man simply grinned, eyes bulging, his curly black hair framing his pale face in wild loops.

Mysterion suddenly realized that he'd made a huge mistake in letting his guard down. He learned how huge just a few second later.

The young man uttered a sound somewhere between a wail and a groan, opened his mouth wide, and then dove forward, teeth sinking into the webbing between Mysterion's thumb and forefinger. Agony lanced up his arm, bright as a flare shot into a midnight sky, and Kenny had time to think, almost calmly: _Whelp, I don't think I've even been eaten alive before_ — before he raised his nightstick and brought it down on the kid's head, hard enough to brain him.

The young man staggered a little and let go, finally. Mysterion's left hand was bleeding profusely, a mouth-sized chunk gone.

"Fuck," he growled, shaken and disbelieving. "Fuck me right in the rectum, dude…"

The young man raised his head, mouth bloody. By all rights he should have been lying on the floor in an unconscious heap after a hit like that, but he wasn't. He uttered another wail-like groan and charged, arms failing, and it might have been funny-looking it it weren't so utterly _terrifying_.

"FUCK!" Mysterion shouted, scrambling backward. He brought his nightstick up in a short, quick arc, as if he was batting a home run, and smashed the kid across the face. His head snapped, teeth flew, but it didn't alter his trajectory at all, or slow him down one bit.

_no no no no no what is this this isn't possible what IS THIS_

The young man crashed into him full force, knocking him clean off his feet. He was wailing loudly now, non stop, sounding just like any one of Hell's tortured souls. Mysterion nightstick flew out of his hand and skittered to a stop several feet away, and if that wasn't just fucking _perfect_ he didn't know what was.

The little two-way radio he'd clipped to his belt crackled to life, and he could hear Kevin shouting at him, _"Mysterion! C'mon my friend, give us a status report!"_

 _Things are fucked, Kev. Thanks for asking,_ Mysterion thought, thrashing wildly under the young man's weight.

He didn't weigh much, he didn't weigh much at _all_ , but he was so fucking strong it didn't seem to matter. The young man grabbed the front of Kenny's parka and tore through it like he was tearing through paper, showering them both in cotton lining and exposing Mysterion's vulnerable belly. The destruction of his precious parka might have pissed him off — and he supposed it would, later, if he survived this — but right now he hardly cared.

"GET THE FUCK OFF ME!" Mysterion roared, punching, kicking, fucking _scratching_ at him, attacking any vulnerable spot he could get to, but if being bashed in the face _twice_ with a nightstick had no effect he supposed this didn't either.

The young man braced himself on Mysterion's shoulders, pinning him down, straddling his hips as if he was about to _ride_ him. His eyes bulged crazily, and Mysterion was reminded of that one villain in _Who Framed Roger Rabbit,_ the one who said

_Remember me, Eddie? When I killed your brother, I talked JUST...LIKE...THISSSSSS!_

Mysterion wasn't one to give in to panic, but maybe he was panicking a little now, just a little. He tried to dig his fingers into the young man's eyes, tried to squash them like fucking _grapes_ , but his assailant gurgled out a few nonsense words and shifted a little, so that both of his unnaturally strong hands were wrapped about Mysterion's right arm.

_oh no please don't do what I think you're going to do please please_

He bent his arm back at the elbow, breaking it. It sounded just like someone had stepped on a bag of popcorn.

He wasn't Mysterion now, he was Kenny, and he was screaming, screaming. His broken right arm, now bent at a grotesque angle, flopped uselessly to one side. His left, missing a chunk of flesh, beat the concrete floor weakly, helplessly. In his struggles, he didn't realize that the little switch on the two-way radio had been flipped on.

The young man braced himself once again, and bent down, mouth wide. When Kenny felt those teeth sink into his cheek, everything started going fuzzy.

* * *

At some point Kenny started screaming, and he didn't stop. Kevin thought he knew what terror felt like — staring up at a big wooden roller coaster and getting motion sick just thinking about it — but that wasn't terror, _this_ was.

He clapped a hand over his mouth, shaking like a leaf, terrified right down to his core. This was nothing like the comics, 'cause in the comics everyone was brave and awesome and they had super-cool powers and nobody ever _wet their fucking pants_ in fright, this was nothing like the comics, not even a little bit —

Butters jumped out of the car.

"Butters!" Kevin shouted. His voice sounded high and strange in his ears. Those blood-curdling screams continued over the radio, and Kevin knew he'd be hearing that crap in his nightmares. Butters ignored him and ran pell-mell for the barbed-wire fence.

"BUTTERS! KENNY SAID TO STAY PUT!" Kevin screamed, scrambling out of the car. "Shit shit shit shit —"

_You always wanted to save the day, Kev._

"There is no emotion, there is peace, there is no emotion, there is peace...oh Spock, give me strength," Kevin chanted, before he took off after Butters.


	11. Chapter 11

**-Interlude-**

"Trust me, Buttercup. I _promise_ I'll look after you, okay?"

**~ Kenny McCormick.**

* * *

Butters jumped out of the car and ran for the fence surrounding the old warehouse with Kenny's screams echoing in his ears.

He could hear Kevin shouting at him to come back, to _stop_ for a moment and think things through, but Butters was operating on pure instinct, all the compassion he thought had been beaten out of him a long time ago returning in a dizzying rush that left no room for his usual cowardice. He knew that what he was doing was stupid and dangerous, but he was _hell-bent_ on going anyway. 

And dear God, it was _bitingly_ cold. His breath puffed out before him in small white clouds as he ran, and an icy wind quickly wrestled away what little warmth he'd had to begin with. For a second, Butters was sharply reminded of his own vulnerability (- w _hat am I gonna do I have nothing I literally have_ _ **nothing -**_ ), but he shoved that thought to the side and focused on putting one foot in front of the other without slipping on the snow-covered road, concern for Kenny's welfare completely overshadowing everything else. If they survived this, there would be plenty of time to wallow in self-pity later.

Butters was painfully out of breath by the time he reached the fence, even though he'd only run fifteen, maybe twenty feet. He wasn't surprised _—_ the last few days' worth of activity is more exercise than he's had all year. Healing factor or no, there was no substitute for food and rest, and Butters simply hadn't had enough of either. He gripped the chain-link fence anyway (disregarding his pounding heart and the needling stitch in his side), and almost fell backward when Kevin began climbing up beside him, mostly because he really hadn't expected him to follow. Kevin looked terrified, but there was grim determination written all over his face, and Butters was suddenly really glad to have him along.

The barbed wire looped across the top of the fence was spotted with rust and covered in wicked snarls. Butters grabbed two fistfuls of rusty wire, uncaring, his hands so numb he barely registered the bleeding divots the barbs dug out of his palms. He hauled himself over and dropped down on the other side with a gasp, then held his hands up his face. Sure enough, the cuts had closed themselves up with a faint tingling sensation, leaving only a faint smear of blood as proof that they'd ever been there at all. Butters grinned, then laughed, the sound carrying a distinctly unpleasant edge that sounded foreign in his ears.

What did it matter how dangerous this was? Who fucking cared if he got shot or stabbed? Butters had been shot and stabbed before, _countless_ times, and each time his body knit itself up like nothing had ever happened. He was _indestructible_.

Kevin gingerly navigated the barbed wire, trying not to get himself caught on it, only to lose his footing and tumble gracelessly to the wet concrete. He landed on his hands and knees and briefly muttered a string of curses, before climbing awkwardly to his feet.

"A-are you okay?"

"Fine," Kevin clipped. His grimace said otherwise, but Butters had no choice but to take his word for it.

Together they charged the warehouse, like a couple of misfit soldiers showing up for battle too late to anyone any good. As Kevin shoved the warehouse's big doors open (someone had shot off the padlock, the remains of it could be seen scattered around the entrance) Butters realized with a sharp jolt of fear that the large room beyond was silent.

Kenny had stopped screaming.

_Oh hamburgers he's dead, he's dead and it's all my fault —_

"Kenny!" Butters shouted into the darkness, his heart slamming out an erratic rhythm of terror in his small chest. It was dark in here, so dark. Butters felt like he'd just stepped into the echoey maw of some cold creature, and there was no turning back now.

"Kenny?!" Butters shouted again, his voice high and squeaky. Kevin yanked on the back of his shirt to stop him from going any further, and then fumbled in the pocket of his jeans for his phone. He held it up like a makeshift torch, trembling a little. The light it provided was meager at best, but it was better than nothing.

"Do you see anything?" Kevin asked, with a noticeable quaver in his voice. Butters shook his head, he couldn't see anything...but he could _hear_ something. _Groans_. Low, agonized groans.

"Over there," Butters hissed, pointing somewhere off to the left. Kevin quickly aimed his phone in that direction. Still, nothing.

"We gotta g-get closer!" Butters insisted, pulling on Kevin's sleeve.

"I knew you were going to say that," Kevin muttered. This time _he_ took the lead, indicating that Butters should get behind him, and together they forwarded the darkness with Kevin waving his phone this way and that, as if he was a swimmer navigating murky water.

Every step Butters took felt heavy, his body weighed down by dread. After a span of time that felt like an eternity — but was really only a minute or two — the thin, bluish light emanating from Kevin's phone washed over two figures crouched on the floor.

They both stopped, and stared.

"Wǒ bù xiāngxìn," Kevin whispered, sounding small and shocked, like a child who had just discovered a monster.

At first, Butters couldn't believe what he was seeing. It was so strange, so utterly _disturbing,_ his brain rejected the sight before him immediately as even as his eyes absorbed the details. Kenny was lying on the dusty floor of the warehouse in a pool of his own blood. If it hadn't been for the young man crouched over him, Butters would have thought he'd been mauled by a _bear_. There was a raw, weeping hole where his nose had once been and his right arm was bent at a grotesque angle. One of his cheeks had been bitten into, so deeply Butters could see teeth and tendons, milky in the light of Kevin's phone. Kenny's ratty orange parka had been ripped open, and something _—_ _someone —_ had savagely torn a wound in his side. Intestines, pink and slippery as newborn cats, peeked through this wound like party streamers.

But despite it all, Kenny was still alive. Butters could hear him groaning in unimaginable agony. He tore his gaze away from the sight, his mouth gone dry as a desert, and focused on the young man kneeling over the fallen superhero. His lips were painted a lurish red _—_

_Blood, that's blood, oh Jesus-fucking-hamburgers he was EATING him_

— but it was the big red 'X' tattooed on his forehead that finally snapped Butters out of his stunned haze.

_A reject._

" _M-M-Michael_?" Butters stuttered, feeling numb and far away, as if he'd just slipped into a nightmare and none of this was real. "M-Michael, w-w-what h-happened, w-w- _why_ —"

But Butters already knew the answer to that question. Michael had been rejected. His body had refused to accept the changes, and he had been turned into a mindless, hungry killing machine. Butters had tried so hard, but he just couldn't save him. No more than he could save Bradley. He was the only one, _lucky_ Number Seventy-Five.

Tears were streaming down his face. His throat had closed up, too, but that was fine — Butters couldn't have spoken even if he'd wanted to; he was so upset forming proper sentences had become impossible.

Michael had frozen up, his head cocked slightly to the side, regarding them with bulging eyes that were intense and sightless at the same time. His lips had split into a strange smile that seemed to stretch from ear to ear, any semblance of sanity completely absent.

"What the heck is that thing?!" Kevin shrieked, cringing away.

Michael jerked his head toward Kevin, eyes rolling in their sockets, his smile so wide his lips actually began to crack and bleed.

"K-K-Kuh- _hev_ -in— " _Fuck_ , his stutter was so bad right now. Butters tried to swallow, to no avail. "S-suh, _stop_ —"

Michael leapt to his feet with a sudden wail, and charged at them.

Kevin uttered a girlish scream and threw his hands over his face, as if that was enough to protect him from whatever was coming next. Butters grit his teeth and shoved Kevin out of the way just as Michael was reaching for him, flailing like a man engulfed in flames.

If it hadn't been for Butters's quick thinking, Kevin's arm probably would have been torn from its socket. As it was, Kevin stumbled and fell on his ass, screaming Chinese phrases in pure terror. That left Butters standing directly in Michael's path, with no possible hope of dodging.

"Michael, _please_ —!" Butters began. The rest of that sentence was lost in a sudden rush of air escaping his lungs as Michael crashed into him like a freight train. Butters was thrown violently to the floor, and rolled twice before coming to a jarring stop. He immediately curled into a fetal position, clutching his frail, aching body, whimpering softly. His chest was _burning,_ and his stomach was one big knot of pain. Michael had hit him so hard it was as if the functional that controlled his breathing had momentarily seized up, denying Butters the oxygen he so desperately needed.

Kevin, on the other hand, was screaming like he was never going to stop.

_Kevin...don't...he's attracted by light and sound…_

Butters opened his mouth to warn him, but all that emerged was a dry, gasping wheeze. Michael turned away, drawn by the sound of Kevin's panicking, and began to shamble in his direction, making sick gurgling sounds that sounded as if he trying to form words — only he'd lost the ability to speak.

 _This can't be happening this can't be happening this can't be happening,_ Kevin thought, scooting back on his buttocks, on the verge of pure hysteria. Butters was down, and it didn't look like he was going to be getting up anytime soon. Kenny had been eviscerated by some crazed cannibal — the same crazed cannibal who was currently looking to eviscerate _him_ — but none of this could possibly be real; he was simply having an incredibly realistic nightmare. Any second now Kevin was going to wake up and find himself right back at his cozy apartment, safe in bed, yep, _any second now_ —

Kevin touched something lukewarm and wet. He lifted his hands, skin crawling with revulsion, and realized that he'd backed right into the slowly cooling pool of Kenny's blood. His hands and the rough material of his jeans were now _soaked_ in it. Kevin felt bile rise to the back of his throat, hot and stinging, but he swallowed it back and forced himself to look at Kenny, searching for something — _anything_ — that he could use to protect himself with. This was very, _very_ real, and suddenly Kevin knew that if he didn't get his shit together they were all going to die right here.

"I'm so sorry," Kevin sobbed, fumbling for Kenny's belt. Kenny was still wearing the backpack full of supplies that Kevin had given him, but Kevin just didn't have the stomach to turn Kenny over to get to it, nor did he have the time.

 _Please let there be something please let there be something, please_ —

Kevin's hands closed around something metallic shoved in the waistband of Kenny's pants. He yanked, and removed a 9mm pistol just as the cannibal dropped down and grabbed his left ankle.

Kevin screeched as he was pulled forward, kicking wildly with his free leg. The cannibal grunted — as if he was annoyed by Kevin's struggling — but held on. He was strong, _unnaturally_ strong, despite his thin frame. Then he began _twisting_ Kevin's ankle, as if he was trying to twist the cap off a bottle.

 _Oh my God, no, no, no_ —

Kevin screamed bloody murder as he felt the delicate bones in his ankle creaking, tendons that weren't meant to stretch that far sending streamers of agony up and down his leg. The cannibal grunted again, a low, satisfied sound, yanked some more, and —

— and accidentally slipped Kevin's sneaker right off his foot.

Kevin's leg dropped back down to the ground, leaving only his shoe — an old black Converse high top — in the cannibal's hands. Momentarily freed, Kevin aimed Kenny's handgun in the cannibal's direction, his chest hitching with dry, terrified sobs. His left ankle was already swelling up in its sock and he was shaking so badly the damned gun nearly fell right out of his hands.

Kevin had never fired a gun before, much less held one, but he'd seen enough movies to know the general gist of things. He only hoped that would be enough. Kevin thumbed back the safety, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. He wasn't prepared for the recoil, or how loud it would be. The shot echoed throughout the warehouse like a small explosion, and the smell of expelled gunpowder was pungent, _bitter_. Kevin gulped and opened his eyes again and...and —

Fuck, he'd fucking _missed_.

"I shoot like a goddamn Stormtrooper," Kevin whispered to himself, thoroughly disappointed.

The cannibal didn't even blink. It was as if the gun held no meaning for him whatever, as if his only purpose was to maim, kill and feed. He reached out again and seized Kevin's leg — _again_ — and this time there was no shoe to get in the way. He opened his mouth, his big, blood-stained mouth, and _bit_ him, teeth sinking down on several of Kevin's toes. The cannibal chomped him right through the sock, like a wild animal, like he didn't care at all.

"SHOOT HIM!" Butters shouted, having somehow struggled back to his feet during all this. "Kevin, you gotta _shoot him_!"

As if he needed to be told. Kevin was in so much pain right now he began firing wildly, without even bothering to aim, completely hysterical. He missed his first shot, clipped the cannibal's shoulder on the second, and finally caught him in the head on the third.

The sound it made was sickening; _ker-SPLAT!_

Butters watched as Michael jerked violently — blood, brain matter and bits of bone exiting the back of his skull in a fine spray — and went limp. He face-planted between Kevin's legs, twitched once, and was still. Kevin immediately shoved him away, dropping Kenny's handgun in the process, hyperventilating with a distressed, sobby sound.

Five minutes. All of this had happened in the space of five minutes, Butters would think later, but for him it was if the world had momentarily stopped. The silence that descended over them was charged, oppressive. Butters took a deep breath, so emotionally exhausted he didn't feel sad, or scared or... _anything_ really. He just felt sort of _numb_ , and somehow that was the worst of them all.

"Kevin…" Butters mumbled, slowly approaching the trembling young engineering student, all while clutching his side. Everything ached were Michael had hit him. Butters didn't have to lift up his shirt to know that he'd be black and blue on that side — cosmetic damage that would be gone in the morning. "Kevin, a-are ya okay?"

"I shot him. I...I _killed_ someone…" Kevin gasped, completely ignoring Butters's question. His pale skin had gone several shades paler, tinted all over with a light green color that didn't bode well for anyone.

"Kevin, i-it's fine —"

"I think I'm going to — I...I need some..." Kevin began, before he staggered to his feet and began hobbling toward the exit as fast as he could, limping badly. He left a trail of bloody footprints in his wake.

"Kevin!" Butters yelled after him, alarmed. "Kevin, wait, p-please don't leave me!"

His pleas went unheeded. Kevin fled, leaving Butters with Michael's corpse and...Kenny. Butters shivered, fully expecting to find that Kenny had passed away from his injuries. But to his surprise, Kenny was still alive — barely hanging on — but _alive_. He could see his chest moving up and down, very slowly.

"You're a t-tough ol' s-son of a bitch," Butters whispered, picking up Kevin's discarded phone. It was still in flashlight mode, although the face of it had cracked when Kevin dropped it. He knelt down beside Kenny in this small circle of light, and tentatively touched his bloody jaw.

He'd been pretty useless all his life, but this... _this_ was something he could do.

"Hang on," Butters whispered again, before he closed his eyes and began to concentrate.

* * *

Kenny had a vision of a city with no doors, where the people were made of ash. It was unlike any place he'd ever seen before, and yet it was _familiar,_ somehow. It was almost as if —

_I don't know, but...I feel like...I've...been here before._

— but then the vision faded, leaving him swimming in an ocean of agony and uncertainty.

It was strange. Whenever he was on the cusp of death, he almost always saw a bright light, or the fires of hell, sometimes, only blackness. Kenny had seen Heaven only once or twice, a long, long time ago, and his stay there was so brief he couldn't recall what that particular afterlife had looked like, how it had felt. Kenny couldn't help but wonder — usually in those chilling moments of sobriety before he pricked his arm with a needle and washed it all away — why he stopped going to Heaven, why he always went straight to Hell. Did it really matter, if he was doomed to come back anyway?

Maybe he was just a terrible person. It seemed as good an explanation as any for his fucked-up life.

_Tweek...Karen...my family...why do I always fail the people I care most about?_

"Kenny!"

Was that... _Butters_?

"Kenny! Hold on, jus'...jus' stay with me, now!"

_No, kid. Get the fuck outta here, just...go. I'm not worth the fucking effort._

"Oh hamburgers, y-you better not die on me! No way am I gonna let ya!"

 _Yes, please! I want to die, can't you see I want to die, can't the fucking_ _**universe** _ _see that I want to die, I WANT TO DIE! JUST LET ME DIE, PLEASE —_

"This is gonna hurt some…"

"Nnnggghhh!" Kenny groaned, as an unfamiliar feeling washed over him. It was hot and tingling, almost on the verge of _burning_ , as if someone had stuck his body in an oven. The sensation only intensified, until it became nearly unbearable.

"Please," Kenny moaned, shifting feebly, "Butters...it _hurts…_ "

"Just a little more, okay? I-I gotta stabilize ya...close up the big wounds…"

"Where...the guy that attacked me…"

"He's dead. Please, jus' try to relax."

Kenny hissed sharply, and for a moment it felt like he was on _fire_...but the sensation gradually eased, became warm and strangely comfortable.

"There," Butters murmured, "now jus' hold still, I need'ta finish."

"What did you…" Kenny whispered.

"Jus' _hush_ , mister!" Butters snapped, exasperated.

Kenny hushed. He could hear Butters mumbling to himself, feel him running his hands over his face, across his stomach. Butters's hands were small and soft and _warm_ , and everywhere he touched him Kenny _tingled_. The feeling was pleasurable and unsettling at the same time, as if he was getting a massage and being sucked into an MRI machine all at once.

What the hell was Butters even _doing_?

Kenny opened his eyes. It was an oddly difficult thing to do, and left him feeling exhausted, dizzy. Butters was hunched over him. His face was wan and pinched in the gloom, and his brows were knitted over his aquamarine eyes in concentration. Butters had moved down to his broken arm, poking and prodding with the utmost care, but when he saw Kenny staring he immediately moved to cover his eyes again, as if Kenny was a child and Butters was a concerned mother trying to keep him from witnessing something scandalous.

"Don't look."

"First you want me to be quiet, and now you don't want me to look," Kenny complained, too tired to actually move Butters's hand away. "You're bossy as _shit_ , you know that?"

"I'm n-not bossy!" Butters replied, indignant. "It's _gruesome_! You were hurt real bad, y'know! I'm tryin' to save your life, a-an' I don't think you wanna see your stupid guts hangin' outta the hole in your side!"

Kenny chuckled darkly. "Believe it not, I've seen worse. Guts included."

Butters paused, as if he was trying to decide whether or not to take that seriously, or write it off as the delirious ravings of a madman.

"Y-yeah, well," Butters muttered finally, " _I'd_ feel better if ya kept your eyes closed. Now settle down an' let me finish, I'm a-almost done."

"Butters…"

"Wha-uh, _what_?!"

"Talk to me," Kenny pleaded softly.

"I…huh?"

"I'll keep my eyes closed, I promise. Just...please just talk to me. Distract me. _Please_." Kenny begged, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice.

"But...but I don't know what…"

"Anything. Please?"

Butters paused again, longer this time. For a brief, disappointing moment, Kenny was sure the boy was going to ignore him, but then he heard Butters whisper, "Umm...your shirt is all torn up."

"...Sorry?"

"I...I c-can see your tattoos. Um, an' your belly button piercin'...an' stuff. They're real nice."

Kenny smiled a little, feeling as if someone had just given him a shot of morphine and he was floating, floating. Was Butters responsible for that? He _had_ to be, there was no other explanation.

"Thanks. I used to have a lot more piercings, but I kept tearing them out." _And I couldn't afford to keep getting them replaced every time I died._

"O-ouch."

"Eh. Trust me, ninety-nine percent of the time it was because I was doing something stupid."

"I can believe that," Butters replied, with a hint of teasing in his voice. "How m-many piercings did you have?"

"Hmm," Kenny murmured, trying to remember. "I had a labret lip piercing...a stud in my tongue — _that_ was fun — two in both ears, one in my right eyebrow, one in my left nipple, my belly button, of course...and I got my dick pierced. So, ten?"

"Wha-uh, you p-pierced your _privates_? _Why_?"

"Two words: drunken dare. I still have the dick piercing, actually." _If Tweek'd taken me up on my offer, I'm pretty sure he would have flipped out over it. Tweek…_

"You're so weird," Butters said, laughing softly. He had such a nice laugh, Kenny thought, bright and sweet.

"Oh, like _you_ aren't."

"Hey, I may not be normal, mister, but I would never get drunk enough to let someone stick a needle in my _privates_."

"Touché."

"And what about the tattoos? Were ya drunk when you got those?"

"Dude, no way. Piercings are one thing, sitting still while some idiot carves some really bad art into your skin is another."

"W-well, whoever did yours did a really good job. It's r-really beautiful," Butters murmured, almost shyly.

"It _better_ be. I went down on that guy, like, _four_ times to pay for it. Hairiest balls I've ever seen."

"O-oh...uh…um…"

"Sorry. TMI. I do that sometimes."

"Um," Butters cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject, "u-um, I-I won't be able to heal your arm properly until I get it all lined up again...this really _will_ hurt…"

"Do what you gotta do," Kenny muttered, bracing himself as best he could. Butters nodded, although Kenny couldn't see it, and firmly grasped his arm, still bent the wrong way at the elbow like a big 'L'. He didn't seem the least bit bothered by the gruesomeness of it all, which begged the question: just how many times had Butters _done_ this before?

" 'Kay...um, on the count of three. One...two…"

" _FFFFUUUCK_!" Kenny shrieked as Butters popped his arm back into place, with an electrifying wave of pain that traveled all the way to up his shoulder. His eyes flew open despite his promise, and the nausea he felt was immediate and disorienting.

"...Ugh…oh fuck," he groaned, writhing in the cold pool of his own blood.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Butters cried, reaching for him again. "Here, lemme fix it!"

"Butters —"

This time, when Butters touched him, it was like being shot full of adrenaline. Kenny shuddered, then groaned as that tingling sensation became a full on singing in his blood, every nerve-ending firing off like a _rocket_. He was suddenly reminded of the first time Butters had done this, back at the old base. Kenny couldn't believe that it had only been a few days ago.

"Better?" Butters asked, sounding faint. He looked faint, too — sort of loopy — like he was drunk or something. Fine beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, and his eyes were so dilated all that could be seen of them was a thin ring of aquamarine around a sea of black. Butters's small, soft hands were cupping his face, holding him close.

Kenny nodded, not trusting himself to speak, his heart beating much too fast. Butters closed his eyes with a relieved sigh and the tingling abruptly stopped, leaving Kenny feeling cold and vaguely disappointed somehow. Kenny wasn't sure why it had never occurred him that Butters could control that.

"I think...I overdid it," Butters muttered wearily, still cupping Kenny's face, as if he'd forgotten what he was doing — or was too tired to move. "Aw, hamburgers...what the _h-heck_ is up with you?"

" _Excuse_ me?" Kenny asked, and _fuck_ , he'd been in some really bizarre situations before, but lying flat on his back in an abandoned warehouse after he'd nearly been eaten alive with some kid he barely knew — the same kid who'd just saved his life with his freaky-ass healing powers — definitely took the cake. Kenny knew he ought to get up, push Butters away, do _something_ , but it was as if he'd been rooted to the spot.

"You feel weird," Butters replied, his voice low and dreamlike. Butters opened his eyes and studied his face, lips parting slightly. Kenny couldn't help but notice how dazed Butters looked, like he wasn't really seeing him at all.

"Well...you _were_ just shoving my intestines back into my abdominal cavity, so…"

"It's not just that," Butters insisted, gently running the soft pads of his fingertips across Kenny's cheekbones. Kenny couldn't help it, he shivered a little. "You feel like _him._ "

"Him? Who is _'him'_?" Kenny asked, curious despite himself. Butters simply shook his head, slowly trailing his fingers down his face, over the cinnamon-colored freckles he'd so hated as a child. The blond-haired boy skimmed along his Adam's apple (Kenny swallowed reflexively) and then back up again, back to his lips...where they _lingered_. Considering all of the kinky shit he'd done over the years, there was absolutely no reason why that touch should have affected him the way it did...but Kenny's heart was pounding by the time Butters was done.

"I always wanted to...to get closer to him…" Butters whispered. "I always wanted to thank him for comforting me…"

Butters leaned down, slowly closing the gap between them, and if Kenny wasn't confused before, he sure as shit was confused now. _He's going to kiss me_ , Kenny thought dumbly, watching with wide, startled dark blue eyes as Butters inched closer and closer, his lips puckered in anticipation, and — _holy shit_ — Butters's lips looked so inviting, but if he didn't put a stop to this _right now_ he'd only be taking advantage of him.

"Butters!" Kenny said, shoving the boy away a little harder than was strictly necessary. "Hey, snap out of it!"

"Wha-uh —?" An expression of hurt briefly crossed Butters's face, quickly followed by an expression of pure confusion. He blinked several times, shook his head as if to clear it, and then peered at Kenny as if he'd violated him, his cheeks reddening in embarrassment.

"I-I...I'm suh-sorry, I didn't m-mean to! I w-wasn't...you ruh-reminded me of…" Butters began, stammering over his words. Kenny held up a hand to silence him, smiling a little.

" _Butters_ , it's okay, really."

"N-no, it's _nuh-not_ okay! I would nuh- _never_ kiss you like that, I was jus' —!"

 _Never?_ "Hey. Look at me," Kenny said, gently tugging on Butters's soiled shirtsleeve. When the blond-haired boy peeked up at him from beneath the fringe of his long lashes, Kenny smiled again.

"Thank you," Kenny murmured, "for saving my life just then. No one's ever done anything like that for me before."

"Oh…" Butters bit his lip and nodded shyly. "Uh-um, you're welcome, Kenny."

"Heh...ehehe…"

"What's so funny?" Butters demanded, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"Nothing," Kenny replied, climbing gingerly to his feet. "Just...well. I just realized you've been calling me _Kenny_ all this time, and not a jerk or a bastard or whatever."

Butters flushed, crossing his arms defensively. "Y-yeah...well...jus' 'cause I used your real name doesn't mean I don't still think you're a jerk! S-so don't get all excited."

"Heh. Fair enough," Kenny replied, extending an arm to help the boy up. Butters hesitated for just a second, before grasping his open palm and pulling himself to his feet with another quiet sigh of relief.

"Oh, and it's _Kenneth McCormick_ , by the way," Kenny added as an afterthought, giving Butters's hand a light squeeze that made his eyes widen. "I'm sorry I never properly introduced myself."

Butters opened and closed his mouth a few times, but for once he didn't have a saucy comeback. So he simply blushed and shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing down at his feet.

" 'Kay," Butters muttered, refusing to meet Kenny's gaze. Kenny smiled again, vague and a bit saddened — not by Butters, but by everything in general — before turning away to survey the damage.

Just as he'd suspected, his clothes were an absolute ruin. His parka had been shredded, and now hung off of him in tattered and bloodstained threads, completely unsalvageable. Kenny had lots of different jackets, but this stupid orange rag with the bits of missing fur had always been one of his favorites, and losing it hurt more than he was willing to admit.

His nightstick lay on the floor several feet away, and directly in front of him, surrounded by several spent shell casings, was the 9mm Tweek had given him. Kenny scooped the pistol up and tucked it back into the waistband of his jeans, before retrieving his nightstick with a weary sigh. His mini-flashlight had also ended up on the floor, thankfully undamaged. Kenny picked it up, turned it on, and the darkness surrounding them receded just a little bit further. He felt stiff and strange, sort of tender, like every muscle in his body had been pulled and then soothed down with Icy-Hot. Kenny aimed his flashlight down and marveled at his shiny new skin for a moment or two, before he flexed his arm, wincing at the slight twinge of pain he felt.

"H-hey, take it easy," Butters piped up, kneeling down beside the corpse of the young man who had attacked him, "you're gonna be pretty sensitive for a coupla days. Don't go tearin' nothin' open, now."

"Shit. Got it," Kenny mumbled, watching as Butters tenderly brushed back the young man's hair, now wet and matted with chunks of stuff that could only be flesh.

"I'm sorry," Butters whispered brokenly, his voice catching in his throat, "I'm so sorry, Micheal…"

"Did you know him?" Kenny inquired softly. He didn't think Butters was going to give him a straight answer, at least not immediately, but Butters surprised him by shuddering and then meeting his gaze, his own eyes slightly moist.

"N-not really, no," Butters replied, his voice low, "we were both in the same crappy situation, o-only Micheal had it even worse than I did. He was a goth kid and a r-runaway, an' h-he was always talkin' about the conformists an' this an' that, but I liked him. I promised him that he wasn't gonna die, not if I could help it...an' now look at him."

Butters laughed now, utterly mirthless. "Why me? W-why was I the only one? I jus'...I don't get it."

"Butters...you don't have to feel guilty about this. This isn't your fault," Kenny insisted, his voice firm. Butters simply favored him with a sorrowful look, refusing to accept a word of it.

"Maybe. He's still dead, though," Butters muttered. "Can we...can we please jus' get outta here?"

"But what about Tweek?!"

"What _about_ him?" Butters hissed under his breath, angrily using a corner of his already filthy shirt to wipe away Michael's blood.

"What _about_ him?! Are you fucking _serious_?" Kenny shot back, in his first real show of frustration since he'd driven back to Bebe's place hungover and high out of his mind early this morning. "Look, I'm real sorry about what happened to your friend, okay? It's _horrible_ , but we've still got work to do!"

" _You_ ," Butters replied, putting extra emphasis on the word, " _you've_ still got work to do! I'm _done_ with this! I b-barely escaped the first time, an' if I keep hangin' out with you, I'll be ruh-right back where I started!"

"Don't be such a fucking _coward_!" Kenny roared. Butters flinched and took a step back, his eyes going wide, before he squared his jaw in stubborn determination.

"I'm nuh-not a coward," Butters hissed, trembling a little, "so don't you go sayin' _shit_ mister, 'cause you don't know n- _nothin_ '!"

"No?" Kenny asked, arching a brow. "This whole thing was a dead-fucking- _end_ , and now all you want to do is run!"

Butters knocked his knuckles together, frowning. "...I...I told'ya it was probably a trap."

"Oh, well _great_ , that's just peachy! So I am just supposed to give the fuck up now?! That's _it_?!" Kenny snarled, furiously tearing the remains of his parka off his body. _Thoroughly useless._ His arm creaked in protest of so much movement, but Kenny was so upset he didn't care.

"S-stop fuckin' _yellin'_ at me!" Butters shouted, his eyes flashing dangerously, his small hands balling into fists at his sides.

Kenny shut his mouth, pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath and forced himself to count backwards from ten. Losing his cool wasn't going to help anyone, least of all Tweek.

"Look, I'm sorry," Kenny said when he got to four, his shoulders slumping a little, "I didn't mean to yell, I'm just…I'm _tired_ and I'm really fucking _frustrated_ and I have no idea what the fuck is going on anymore. I don't know if Tweek is dead or alive right now, but if there's some small chance that he's out there...please, Butters. I'm _begging_ you. _Help_ me."

Butters fidgeted, rubbing his knuckles together with an anxious ferocity that painfully reminded him of his missing partner. Kenny watched as the boy bit his lip, shifting from foot to foot, looking so utterly miserable he couldn't help feeling sorry for him, sorry and something else...a kind of deep _understanding_ , maybe.

Kenny got the feeling that Butters hadn't been happy in a very long time — and God, could he ever sympathize. Kenny couldn't even remember the last time he'd been _genuinely_ happy, genuinely comfortable and content. It seemed like he was always looking for distractions, something to fill a void in his life he had no name for, couldn't even properly understand. Shooting heroin, having sex with as many people as he could, even running around as Mysterion...they were all just distractions. Somewhere deep inside him there was a hole, and he could ignore it for weeks, sometimes even _months_ at a time, but nothing he'd ever done had ever been able to _fix_ it.

"I...you're right," Butters finally whispered, tentatively meeting his gaze, "I _am_ bein' a coward. It's jus'...I don't know what to do either. I'm all alone, an' I'm scared, an'..." Butters swallowed and gestured down at the corpse on the floor. "I don't wanna end up like _that_."

_Butters…_

Kenny smiled. "Trust me, Buttercup. I _promise_ I'll look after you, okay?"

Butters sniffed. "...Don't make promises if you can't keep 'em."

"Well, fortunately for you, I _always_ keep my promises," Kenny said, his voice low and strong and confident. "So, are you with me?"

A slow smile spread across Butters's face, absolutely heartbreaking in how beautiful it was. "Y-yeah. Okay. I'm with you, Ken."

"Euuugh. Please don't call me _Ken_. I fucking hate that nickname."

"Well, then don't call me Buttercup," Butters replied flippantly. Kenny couldn't help chuckling a little. _No promises._

"U-um, have you ever heard of the South Park Genetic Engineering Ranch?"

"The South Park _what_? No."

"W-well, I can fill you in on the details later. But remember when I said that Craig would take Tweek to a secure location? _That's_ the secure location I was talkin' about. 'Cept you can't jus' waltz in there, not _that_ place. You're gonna need someone who can get ya in, an' I was thinkin', maybe you could ask Kyle."

"Kyle? Who the fuck is _Kyle_?" Kenny scoffed.

"Kyle Broflovski! He's a researcher," Butters replied, "an' he's the same guy who helped me. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him. Fair warnin', he's got a bit of a temper, but I'm sure he won't mind if you ask him _nicely_."

"Nicely, huh." Kenny repeated dryly, rubbing his chin. "Shit, Butters. I don't know about this...we already got Kevin and —"

"Oh Jesus-fuckin'-hamburgers, _Kevin_!" Butters suddenly cried, sprinting for the door. "He got hurt too, an' I completely forgot all about him! Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ —"

 _Shit, what now?_ Kenny thought despairingly, running after the boy.

They found Kevin huddled just outside the entrance, next to a half-frozen pool of his own vomit.

The engineering student was pale as death, and his left foot was a bloody, swollen mess that hurt even to look at. Kevin was groaning softly, and it was obvious from the dejected expression on his face that he'd been struggling to get himself together all this time and failing miserably. Kenny shook his head, smiling almost affectionately. _Poor guy._

Stoley nearly jumped out of his skin when Butters dropped down beside him, his dark brown eyes filled with nervous apprehension. When he looked up and saw Kenny staring down at him, his dejected expression was quickly replaced by one of pure, awed disbelief.

" _You_ ," Kevin muttered breathlessly.

Kenny shrugged. "Yeah."

"You're alive. You're...you're actually _alive_."

Kenny shrugged again. "Thanks to Butters."

"But...but your face...and your arm... _how…_ "

"I can heal people," Butters explained, looking sheepish. "U-um, it's a real long story."

"You can...heal people," Kevin slowly repeated, glancing from Kenny to Butters and then back to Kenny with a bland, exhausted look on his face. "I...see. Ha, sure, makes sense. That's probably the _least_ craziest thing I've heard today."

"Kevin, are you okay?" Butters asked gently, reaching out to touch him, "Lemme jus' —"

"N-no!" Kevin squeaked, drawing back in horror. "Look, no offense my friend, but if you touch me I'm probably going to throw up all over your shoes. I know I sound reasonably calm considering the circumstances — and trust me, I have no idea how I'm accomplishing this — but I'm seriously about _five seconds_ away from having a complete _mental breakdown!_ Oh God...wǒ bùnéng xiāngxìn zhè zhǐshì fāshēng…."

"Kevin, _Kev_. It's okay, we're done here," Kenny said, reaching down to help Kevin up. "Let's just go. We'll discuss the rest later."

"I...okay," Kevin said, swallowing hard. "Ah, but what about —"

"He wasn't human no more, not really," Butters mumbled, shivering. "It's...it's better this way. Michael won't have to keep sufferin'. Kenny...before we do anythin' else, could you please call the police from a payphone or somethin'? Michael's parents won't ever have answers, but they deserve to give him a proper burial at least."

"Of course, Buttercup," Kenny replied, gentle.

"Thanks, Ken," Butters whispered, equally gentle.

Together they staggered back to Kevin's car, no one saying anything. A light snow had begun to fall, the frigid air almost refreshing after what they'd just been through. This time Kenny climbed behind the wheel, and Butters got in the front seat after they helped Kevin stretch out in the back, still pale and nauseous.

"Hey Kev," Kenny said as he was starting the engine, glancing in the rear view mirror. "Thanks, man."

"Heh. Anything for Mysterion," Kevin replied, managing a smile. "My place is closer than Bebe's, y'know. Just head up the highway to East Park."

"Cool. Hey, one more thing — do you think you can look up a guy named Kyle Broflovski for me?"

Kevin thought for a moment, before nodding. "Sure. As a great man once said, do, or do not. There is no try."


	12. Chapter 12

8.

**\- PART ONE -**

"I'll believe it when I see it. Peace out, asshole. By the way, you're looking hella stressed. Might wanna go on a _date_ or something, see about getting laid."

**~ Ruby Tucker.**

* * *

Butters woke full-body spasm, filled with a confused but sharp sort of fear, as if an invisible entity had slipped inside and raked its claws down his back.

He kicked off the covers, bolted up out of bed, and stumbled halfway across the room in a blind panic before rationality reasserted itself. When it did, Butters sagged in relief, his heart hammering in his chest.

"Oh geez," he muttered shakily, mopping his fuzzy blond hair off his forehead. He hated how long it had become, how it tickled the back of his neck and clung to the sides of his face in a fine layer of perspiration.

Stephen used to sit him down and give him the most severe crew cuts, wielding his electric shaver like he meant to slice his head off. Later, after he gained some autonomy (but not much; there was never much in the way of independence in his father's household) Butters cut and styled his own hair, keeping his nape and sides closely shaved, the top left to grow out and brushed neatly out of his eyes with a little pomade.

If he was lucky, _if_ , Stephen would let him get away with dying the ends of his honey-blond hair blue or green, sometimes even red. Butters bit his lip. He knew this was selfish and shallow of him, especially considering all his other problems, but all he really wanted was to look normal, _feel_ normal again.

Leopold "Butters" Stotch had once been a slightly plump boy with an easy smile and a naive, trusting disposition, and now...god, he could barely stand to look at himself now, with his scrawny frame, pinched expression and his eyes like a hunted deer. The year or so ( _was_ it only a year? Butters had lost all sense of time in that place) had taken its toll on his physical appearance, not to mention his mental well-being.

It was terrifying to think that it had only taken a year to turn him into _this._ Damaged beyond repair, a kid whose own parents hadn't even wanted him.

_No._

Butters pinched himself, remorselessly digging his short, jagged nails into the skin of his upper arm, until he'd raised two throbbing red welts. The pain was sobering, it was distracting, it helped to ground him in the present. Butters could feel all these dark, hopeless thoughts lurking in the back of his mind like a pack of rabid dogs biding their time, but he refused to give in to them — not _yet_ , anyway.

After all, Kenny _had_ promised to look after him — not that Butters put much stock in promises anymore. It was entirely possible that Kenny would drop him like a hot potato the second they rescued Tweek...assuming he was still alive. Butters had his doubts, but hey, anything was possible.

 _I guess I can't blame him...I'm probably cramping his style,_ Butters thought moodily, chewing even harder on his bottom lip, _and it's all my fault they got wrapped up in this craziness in the first place._

True. Still, he would just have to cross that bridge when he got there. There was no use worrying about it now.

With that thought in mind, Butters slowly turned back to the bed — which was really nothing more than an air mattress that'd been laid out on the floor of the spare bedroom in Kevin's apartment. It had once been a man named Jimmy Valmer's room, Kevin had explained, back when they were sharing this apartment together. When his friend left for California to pursue a career as a stand-up comedian, Kevin converted the space into an office.

Butters was given the honor of having the room all to himself, after Kenny insisted that he'd be fine on the couch. There was more than enough room for the two of them, but he hadn't bothered to protest Kenny's decision.

Truthfully, knowing that he wouldn't have to share a room with Kenny had come as a relief.

Butters wasn't sure he could have handled having Kenny so close after that... _incident_...in the warehouse. ( _— but he felt like_ him _, for a moment I thought Kenny_ was _him, and I just..I wanted to kiss him so bad —_ )

To be fair, he was pretty sure Kenny hadn't wanted to deal with any of them, either. McCormick's mood had _plummeted_ after they reached Kevin's place, his easy charm giving way to stoic, brooding silence. Kenny had practically been _steaming_ with undirected frustration, ready to snap at a moment's notice. All in all, it made for a decidedly uncomfortable atmosphere — even more so after Kevin sadly reported that he hadn't been able to dig up any information on Kyle Broflovski.

"All I could find was his mother's old address," Kevin said, looking impossibly tired, "and she moved to New Jersey with her husband three years ago."

Great. Fan-freakin'- _tastic_.

At least Kevin was being a good sport. Stoley seemed incapable of anything less than unbridled enthusiasm, traumatic near-death experience and all. The guy was a few crayons short of a full box, perhaps — anyone who would create an entire website dedicated to a guy pretending to be some kind of superhero couldn't _possibly_ have it all together — but it was impossible not to like him.

Even so, they had a real problem on their hands, a problem named _Kyle Broflovski_. If Stoley couldn't find him, they needed to find someone who could.

Butters had no idea what "Mysterion" was going to do now. He'd be lying if he said he cared.

 _Michael...I was dreaming about Michael,_ Butters thought, shaking his head.

In his dream, Michael had been whole and well again, nonchalantly smoking one of the cigarettes he used to love so much. Butters got the impression that Michael was trying to tell him something — something _important_ — but every time he opened his mouth swarms of _maggots_ dribbled over his lips and tumbled down his chin, wet and sticky with saliva. They clung to Michael's shirt and wiggled in his nostrils; he breathed them in and chewed them up, only to cough up more.

Butters shuddered. _I ran. I ran, but he caught me. Never could get away from anything in time. Story of my life._

There was a knock at the door.

_Shit._

"D-don't come in!" Butters yelped, snatching the blanket off the floor so he could drape it over his head and shoulders like some kind of overstuffed toga, painfully aware of the fact that he was butt-naked. His clothes lay in a small pile on the other side of the room, so filthy they could practically walk around without him.

 _Ah geez, why now?_ Butters thought, eyeing the door with a sour expression. He was pretty sure Kevin wouldn't have minded loaning him something to sleep in — but that would have required _asking_ , and there was just no way. Kevin had already been kind enough to let him use his shower, and by the time Butters finished scrubbing — taking extra care to dig all the gunk out from under his fingernails — the water was ice-cold and there was no more shampoo. As far as Butters was concerned, he had imposed enough...but truth be told, he'd also been a little too embarrassed.

"Butters, it's me. Can I come in?"

 _Kenny?_ Butters gulped, suddenly and irrationally nervous. Part of him — a bigger part than he cared for, actually — wanted to tell Kenny to go away. But, _god_ , he was just being stupid.

Butters tightened the blanket around his shoulders, and tried not to fidget. "O-okay. You can come in, now."

Kenny did so, cautiously. Butters thought he saw a flash of relief in his dark blue eyes, but it was quickly replaced by an expression of careful neutrality, so he couldn't be sure. Kenny was wearing a slightly different parka in a familiar shade of bright orange, a duffel bag clutched in one hand. For a guy who had spent the night brooding on a stranger's couch, he seemed surprisingly well-rested, like he was ready to take on the world single-handedly.

"Hey. Good morning," Kenny said gently. "How're you doing?"

"O-oh, um, mornin'," Butters mumbled, thrown off somehow the by his politeness, "Well gee, I'm okay —"

"Good," Kenny replied, quickly becoming businesslike. "Uh, look, I've kept a lot of shit in storage over the years, and I figured you could use a few things. So I stopped off this morning and got you this." Kenny held up the duffel bag. "Clothes. My old clothes. They might be a little big on you, but we're about the same height, so…"

Kenny thrust the duffel bag in his direction, looking strangely embarrassed, as if he was offering Butters a gift he didn't think he would like. Butters accepted it, stunned speechless.

"Hope you dig t-shirts with band logos on 'em," Kenny muttered, toying with the strings on the hood of his parka. "So uh. Anyway. Hurry up and get dressed, yea?"

"Wuh-uh, wait!" Butters cried, grabbing Kenny's arm before he could turn away. McCormick arched a brow at him, a jittery kind of impatience written all over his face.

"Jesus, _what_?"

"Nothing, I jus'..." Butters let Kenny's arm slide through his fingers, before offering up a tremulous smile. "...Thank you, Kenny."

"Oh. Uh. You're welcome," Kenny murmured, visibly softening."Butters —"

Kenny paused. Butters waited, expectant — but whatever he meant to say just sort of died right there, leaving Butters shifting anxiously from foot to foot in the ensuing silence. Had he...had he _missed_ something here? Some verbal cue? He must've, because the air had become thick with awkward tension, and...and something _else_ , he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Butters could feel his cheeks growing warmer by the minute. He glanced down, then up, then down and back _up_ again, in rapid succession, unable to meet Kenny's gaze for more than a few seconds at a time, his natural shyness making an already awkward situation all the more unbearable. Kenny was staring at him as if he had just sprouted a fresh pair of nipples on his face, and his dark blue eyes were oddly _piercing_ and — okay, that was enough of this right here.

"Did you get that parka out of storage too?" Butters blurted, mouth running clean away from his brain.

"Wha —?" Kenny blinked, then glanced down at himself. "...Yes?"

"It looks exactly like the one you were wearing last night."

"...Not really. The stitching's a little different. S'not as comfortable."

"Is r-radioactive orange your fuh-favorite color?"

Kenny opened and closed his mouth a few times, flabbergasted.

 _Oh gee, whyd'ya have to go an' say that for?_ Butters thought, going right back to fidgeting. He had always been a chatterbox, and nervousness tended to remove all his filters. _Now he's gonna get mad…_

Kenny chuckled, a warm, rich sound that effectively halted Butters's train of thought.

"As a matter of fact, it is," McCormick replied, flashing his teeth in a brilliant grin. "Now get dressed so we can go over the plan, smartass."

With that, Kenny slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him. Butters waited until his footsteps had faded off down the hall, filled with dumb gratitude. Then he leaned down, unzipped the duffel bag, and rifled through its contents.

...There were a lot of t-shirts with band logos on them. _Crappy_ band logos.

Butters held up a few, smiling wryly. Whelp, beggars couldn't be choosers. Fortunately, Butters couldn't have cared less what he wore, so long as it was clean. Kenny had stuffed a decent amount of shirts in there, along with several pairs of pants (Were those...jeans? _Orange_ jeans?) and an oversized hoodie that looked as if it had been black once upon a time, now faded to a slate gray. No underwear, though. Butters could only assume Kenny had overlooked that particular detail...not that he would have been comfortable wearing another guy's boxers.

 _Just be careful, Butters_ , he thought, slipping on a pair of dark green cargo pants. _Watch that zipper, buddy._ Healing factor or no, that was one pain he had absolutely _no_ interest in experiencing.

Five minutes later, he was dressed and looking as if he'd stepped just out of 90's-era punk time warp.

Butters smoothed down his fluffy hair as best he could, gathered up his old clothes with a moue of disgust, and then, finally, headed outside.

* * *

There was a box of organic, steel-cut oatmeal in his pantry.

As far as wholesome breakfasts went, you couldn't get much more classic or sensible than oatmeal, but on those mornings when he just wasn't feelin' it, grabbing a granola bar was his next best thing. He had at least a dozen different boxes at least, ranging from _just-like-chewing-on-cardboard_ to _so-sweet-you-might-as-well-be-eating-a-candy-bar_. Variety was the spice of life.

Tucked away in the fridge were yoghurt cups, lots of them, along with fresh vegetables in plastic baggies, almond milk, unsweetened soy milk, and several pre-packaged, all-natural dinners he had bought because the advertisements kept toting how perfect they were for today's "on the go lifestyle".

And on the very bottom shelf of the fridge, a place reserved for all the things he liked (but really wasn't supposed to have), was a box of leftover pizza and a six-pack of beer.

It was seven o'clock in the morning.

Token Black moodily contemplated grabbing a yoghurt cup, before he shrugged his shoulders in the universal sign for _ah, fuck it_ and pulled out the box of pizza, snagging a Budweiser to wash it down. Normally Token was an absolute stickler for eating healthy, but it had been a _rough_ twenty-four hours.

 _Suspended until further notice._ Every time he recalled those words, it was like a fresh kick to the gut.

Token ate a slice cold while he leaned against the countertop, glancing disinterestedly around his apartment. His place was simple, modern, small. A little _too_ small, maybe, but after the rambling Tuscan-style mansions, personal chefs and no-expense-spared ski trips of his childhood, Token was only really interested in the basics. Until he could find a good enough reason to move into a bigger place, his tiny apartment suited him just fine. Occasionally stubbing his toe on a piece of furniture in the middle of the night was an inconvenience he could deal with.

His parents seemed to think he should have found a _reason_ already.

Token frowned, cracking open what he was sure would be the first of many beers today.

Linda Black had been surprisingly supportive of his decision to become a police officer, a hell of a lot more supportive than his father had been, anyway, but that wasn't saying much. Steve Black had not-so-secretly been nursing a dream of starting a legacy of black criminal prosecutors, and when his only son refused to follow in his footsteps he took it as a singular blow to his pride. Token's relationship with his parents had always been strained in that regard, their values and expectations casting a long shadow over every aspect of his life.

And where did that leave _him_? Struggling to prove himself...never feeling like he was good enough.

When his parents found out he'd been suspended — and they _would_ find out, this was a small town, so it was really only a matter of time — the _I-told-you-so's_ would come hard and fast.

Should have gone to Yale, should have used that trust fund money, should have become a lawyer instead of wasting his time at the academy, should have married Nichole, even though it was obvious they didn't love each other anymore. And _now_ look at him — suspended from his job, perhaps indefinitely, with disgrace hanging heavy about his neck. See, _I told you so._

Token slammed his beer back down on the countertop so hard it sloshed over his hands, trembling with barely-suppressed rage. _This is Mysterion's fault,_ a cold little voice whispered somewhere deep in the chambers of his mind, startling in its vindictiveness. Blaming someone else for his problems was _childish_ , not to mention totally unfair, and yet…

 _There's something very strange going on this town, and it's not just Mysterion. I can't put my finger on it, but I can feel it...the_ wrongness _._

 _Wrongness_. Token thought that was a perfect word to describe it, and whispered it to himself as he used a paper towel to dab the spilled beer off his countertop, without even realizing.

On the surface, South Park seemed like every other small town this side of the Rockies, rich in natural beauty but not much else. The town had received a much-needed explosion of growth and urbanization over the years (an explosion that had come out of nowhere it seemed, like a sudden flash of lightning striking a gnarled tree) but even with the community college and fancy library, the revitalized downtown area and the new boroughs, South Park was still just a Hicksville, filled with some of the oddest ― and kindest ― people Token had ever met. And underneath it all, hidden in the margin and texture of things, was the wrongness. Token was a practical man, too practical to put much stock in anything he couldn't physically confirm…but he couldn't deny this feeling; it sat heavy in his gut and refused to go away.

 _Something_ was going on around here, and Token was almost positive Mayor McDaniels was involved in whatever this something was. _Fraud_ , the practical, sensible part of him asserted. Token wished he could believe that, he really did. Fraud he could deal with, fraud he could investigate. This didn't quite feel like fraud, though, this felt like ―

 _Something dangerous_ , the gut-feeling whispered, urgent. _Something very, very dangerous and very, very wrong. That shit with Mysterion? That was just the tip of the iceberg. There's a big storm a'comin', buddy._

Token made a face, whipping his head from side to side in a firm denial. That was just _ridiculous_. Stress and exhaustion playing tricks on him. But…

_But? But nothing. Forget it._

Yeah. Suddenly, Token didn't feel like finishing his beer.

Token glanced around his apartment, searching for a distraction, and his eyes eventually lit upon his blue suit jacket lying a crumpled heap beside his couch. He had torn it off in disgust the moment he got home, not long after speaking to Clyde in the evidence room, and hadn't bothered to pick up. The sight made him feel sad somehow, because it was oddly fitting; wrinkled and discarded, just like his current career. Token drifted over, feeling more than a little lost, and bent to pick the jacket up by the hem. He gave it a brisk shake, trying to loosen the worst of the wrinkles, and —

— and something fell out of the pocket.

* * *

"How are you feelin'?' Butters asked, glancing down at Kevin's bandaged foot. Despite all his protests, Kevin had staunchly refused to let him heal it, which struck him as both silly and needlessly stubborn. Thankfully, no bones had been broken, so as long as Kevin avoided putting any on weight on it and changed the bandages regularly, Butters figured he'd be okay.

Kevin was sitting at his tiny kitchen table, his laptop plugged in and open before him, and Kenny was seated on the opposite side. Between them was a big McDonalds bag, and Butters's stomach rumbled at the sight of it.

Kenny saw him looking and gestured for him to sit down, reaching inside the bag for — oh, _hell yes_ — one of those deluxe breakfast meals with the hash browns Butters loved so much. Butters sat down and popped the lid off eagerly, barely acknowledging Kenny's amused smile or Kevin's distracted, "I'm fine, I'm fine." A few days ago he'd barely had an appetite, and now he was _ravenous_.

"Look Kenny," Kevin was saying, his brows furrowed in consternation, "I've double-checked everything. I'm an _engineer_ , my friend, not a hacker! I can't just pop open my computer and pull up someone's address."

"Tweek could," Kenny muttered to himself, before he uttered a sigh so deep it ruffled his bangs. "Are you sure you can't find anything?"

"Positive," Kevin replied, shaking his head. "It would be one thing if I knew more about this guy, but all I have is a name! I'm out of my depth with this sort of thing. Ugh, I don't know, maybe I could —"

"Forget it, Kev. It's _fine_ , you tried." Kenny smiled, brief but genuine. "Thank you."

Kevin looked relieved. "Research isn't exactly my area of expertise. I can weaponize an Etch-a-Sketch or rig a vacuum cleaner to explode, but that's about it. Do you...do you think you can find someone else who can track Broflovski down?"

"Maybe," Kenny rubbed his chin, contemplating. "There is one person…"

"I thought you said you had a plan," Butters piped up, biting a sausage in half.

"I do," Kenny replied, shrugging. "It's not exactly sophisticated, but. I'm pretty sure I know someone who could help us. Whether or not they'll _want_ to help is a different story."

"I suppose it's better than nothing," Kevin mused, with another little shake of his head. "Whoever you have in mind, you'd better find 'em quick. There's a storm blowing in, a really bad one. The roads are going to be awful."

Kenny nodded, still contemplative, and Butters put his fork down long enough to glance out the window mounted above Kevin's kitchen sink. It looked downright _ugly_ out there. Snow drifted lazily from a sky gray and foreboding. The wind was a whisper, but Butters had a feeling it would become a _screech_ soon enough, tearing at his clothes with a dozen icy fingers. Just looking made him feel cold.

"I left my car at Bebe's house…"

"I don't mind if you use mine," Kevin replied, gesturing ruefully down at his injured foot. "It's not like I'm going anywhere. I'll have to come up with a plausible excuse for this come Monday morning, I suppose. Just... _promise_ me you won't wreck the damn thing."

"Dude, no worries," Kenny flashed a quick thumbs-up, "my driving skills are top-fucking-notch! Ask Butters."

Butters shrugged, stuffing the last bits of pancake in his mouth. "It's not any feller who can out-drive Craig Tucker..."

"See? I _totally_ got this."

"...but he was probably goin' easy on ya 'cause I was in the car…"

"Bah!" Kenny dismissed that notion with a wave, and if Kevin was relieved before, he looked mildly concerned now. Stoley rubbed the back of his head, smiling sheepishly.

"Ah...just be careful, alright?"

"Thanks, Kevin, I mean it," Kenny said, sincere. "I'll call you if I need anything, so keep an eye out on the phone. If all goes well, we should be back by sundown. _With_ Tweek," Kenny added. Butters thought that estimate a bit _optimistic_ , but wisely choose not to mention it. "Butters, you're _sure_ this Broflovski dude can get us into the engineering ranch?"

"Yeah," Butters opened the little carton of orange juice that had come with the meal, gulped down half of it (the sweet, citrusy taste was _heavenly_ ; it nearly brought tears to his eyes), and muffled a small burp before gulping down the rest. "Kyle can get ya in, an' Tweek's still alive, he can help you get him out."

"Alright. Good enough for me," Kenny replied, resolute. "Ready?"

Surprisingly enough, he was. Butters zipped up his borrowed jacket, pulled his beanie down over his ears, and nodded.

* * *

_What the —?_

Token bent down to pick up the scrap of paper that had fallen out of his suit jacket, thinking, at first, that it was just a receipt he'd stuffed in his pocket and forgotten all about. But it wasn't a receipt; Token pinched the scrap gingerly between his thumb and forefinger and saw — with a deepening expression of confusion — that it was just a plain piece of notebook paper someone had folded haphazardly. Suspicious (or perhaps only cautious), Token held the scrap up to the light, and could just barely make out an outline of something small and very thin, along with several lines of messy handwriting. He blinked, lowered his hand, and stared at the letter for what felt like forever, the cogs in his mind churning furiously away and turning up nothing but dust and more confusion.

It _definitely_ wasn't his. There was nothing written on the outside to indicate where it had come from, but _someone_ had smuggled this into his pocket, Token was sure of it. When? _How?_

 _Was it Donovan?_ Token thought, grasping at straws like a blind man in his utter bewilderment. Clyde Donovan was the last person he'd seen, the two of them exchanging words briefly in the evidence room. Token had been surprised, and if truth be told, rather _touched_ by Donovan's concern. He had even considered, for a just split second, asking if Donovan would like to grab a drink with him later, his treat of course, but —

_Why would Donovan slip me a letter? That makes no sense._

_So why don't you open the damn thing and find out?_ An inner voice berated, sounding like a stern amalgamation of his parents. Token huffed, expelling air in a combination of exasperation and curiosity, and unfolded the letter.

Tucked in with the letter was a SIM card, but it wasn't what he noticed first. A message had been written in a shaky scrawl, and it seemed to jump out at him.

 

_I'm giving this to you because you seem like one of the good guys. If anything happens to me, use this SIM card and call the number below. The SIM card is programmed to my alternate GPS, and it'll text you my location as a set of coordinates every thirty minutes. Hopefully this won't be necessary, but better safe than sorry, y'know?_

_Call: (303) 552 - 0101!_

_P.S. Tell the asshole on the other end it's from Tweek!_

 

 _Tweek?_ Token was scowling now, his dark brown eyes narrowed in an expression of fierce displeasure. He didn't know anybody by that name. This had to be a fucking joke, _had_ to be, and it wasn't funny —

_Wait —_

Token's face slowly goes slack, lips parting in a little 'o' of realization. No, it couldn't be. But, _shit_ , it was the only possibility that made any sense.

 

_"You." Token said coolly, watching as Mysterion sauntered through a parting crowd of gathered police officers. He'd been so furious then; he could have wrung the bastard's neck with his bare hands._

_"Hey man," Mysterion said. "I'm here to —"_

_Token cranked back a fist and punched the superhero in the face before he could finish that sentence. The crunching sound of his fist connecting with flesh had been ridiculously satisfying._

_"OW OW OW! NGH, JESUS CHRIST!" Mysterion cried, grasping his nose, and that's when Token pulled him close, never once noticing the scrap of paper in his hands or the slight shift when Mysterion slipped it in his pocket._

_"That's for taking your sweet-ass time, you son of a bitch," Token growled, shaking him, "I ought to arrest you…!"_

 

Token chuckled, genuinely amused. Well-played, Mysterion. Well-fucking played.

 _Now what?_ Token dumped the SIM card into his palm and closed his fingers around it, feeling lost all over again.

 _You were suspended, remember?_ The stern inner voice snarled. _This isn't your investigation anymore, it's Special Agent Christophe and Gregory's. If you had any sense at all, you'd march yourself down to the station and submit this note as evidence. There's no reason to get involved._

No. There was no reason to get involved. And yet...

_I'm giving this to you because you seem like one of the good guys._

Token calmly threw all his lingering doubts to the wind. After all, he'd already been suspended. Anything he did now was of little consequence, and besides —

 _This is_ my _town, and I'm not giving up until I find out what the hell's going on._

Token reached for his phone (tossing his suit jacket carelessly across the back of his couch) and carefully, _decisively_ , dialed _(303) 552 - 0101._

* * *

"Where we goin'?" Butters asked, snapping his seatbelt across his lap.

Kenny sighed, looking pained. "Nowhere good," he muttered. "Look, I'll tell you when we get there, okay?"

"Wuh-uh, _why_?"

"Because I _really_ don't wanna think about it."

Butters arched a brow, but he accepted Kenny's word without further comment, silently cranking up the heat in Kevin's green Camry. Kenny carefully backed out of the covered parking area reserved for Stoley's apartment complex, and a moment later they were on the road, heading northwest.

Butters pressed his face unselfconsciously against the passenger-side window and watched scenery drift by as Kenny fiddled with the radio, trying to find a station that wasn't clotted with static. Oddly enough, those were few and far between. Between snatches of music and the strangely eerie voice of a male announcing, _"This is a test of the emergency alert system…"_ , there wasn't much to listen to.

"Must be the storm…" Kenny mumbled, turning the radio way down.

"Hm." _That static...there's something about it..._ Butters wiggled at that thought like a loose tooth, but before he could refine it into anything more concrete than a vague feeling, Kenny was speaking again.

"You don't talk much, do you?"

Butters peeled himself away from the window and glared. "I talk plenty, mister."

"Just not to me, right?" Kenny replied, a hint of teasing in his voice.

"It's not that," Butters grumbled, wringing his hands in his lap. "I jus'...I don't _know_ you. An' I have n-no idea what to say to you."

Kenny absorbed that in silence for a moment or two, before muttering in a low, awed voice, " _Really?_ "

"Wuh-uh, _what?_ " Butters demanded, bristling a little. "You gotta problem with that or somethin'?"

"No, dude, Jesus. I'm just, I don't know, _surprised_. It sounds like you think I'm intimidating, or something."

Butters huffed. "Well, maybe you are."

"No _way_ , dude. I'm calling bullshit on that one. If anyone's intimidating here, it's _you_ ," Kenny insisted, ignoring Butters's startled glance. "You've been glaring at me almost nonstop for, like, the past two days. I know I didn't exactly sweep you off your feet back there, but I was hoping my selfless heroism and _stunning_ good looks would have softened you up by now."

Butters snorted. "Gee. Is that how it works?"

"Well, yeah," Kenny grinned. "Unless you're just, I don't know. Determined to hate me. _Are_ you?"

Butters flushed, turning his face back to the window. "N-no. I don't hate you or nothin'...I mean, you were actin' like a real jerk before, but you seem okay..."

"Good." Kenny murmured. "'Cause that would suck."

"But I _still_ don't know what to say to you," Butters said. He nibbled on his bottom lip, then added: "An' why would you care if I hated you, anyways?"

"Why _wouldn't_ I care?" Kenny asked. Butters shrugged, stubbornly keeping his gaze trained on the dreary view just outside the passenger-side window.

"You're adorable," Kenny said, his voice light, honest, "and I would honestly feel like a real piece of shit if you hated me."

"Um," Butters said, fiddling with the strings on his borrowed parka. He felt embarrassed, pleased and doubtful all at once, part of him absolutely convinced that he couldn't take Kenny seriously, the other part desperately wanting to trust him, even if just a little. But before he could decide one way or the other (or even begin to come up with an appropriate response to McCormick's comment) Kenny's phone chimed loudly.

* * *

"C'mon...c'mon," Token muttered, listening to the ringing on the other end with an impatient scowl, "pick _up_ , asshole."

The asshole didn't, and after a moment or two, he was put through to voicemail: _Yo, this is Kenny-motherfuckin'-McCormick. I'm busy right now, so leave a message. If you're someone I actually WANT to talk to, I'll get back to you later. Peace._

Token hung up without leaving a message. Even if he could come up with something that _wouldn't_ sound absolutely insane, Token highly doubted he qualified as someone this guy wanted to talk to.

 _Kenny McCormick, huh?_ Token mused, thoughtfully tapping his chin with his phone. The name rang no bells whatsoever. Token had heard a rumor that the "superhero" was working with a partner, but he could never uncover any evidence to corroborate that. Was _Kenny_ Mysterion's partner? Was Tweek? Who was who in all this, and why had those thugs been so desperate to catch him they hijacked an entire building?

 _Alright, you made the call. Time to report this to the station,_ the stern inner voice protested, a little more weakly now. Token quickly, coolly, disregarded it.

Suspended or no, he was still the Chief of Police, and hey, even a small-town cop like him could pull some clout. Token considered this for a moment, then pulled up his phone's contact list.

Time to call in some favors.

* * *

"A-aren't you gonna answer that?" Butters asked, watching Kenny tuck his phone back into the breast pocket of his parka with barely a glance.

"No." Kenny shrugged. "I don't recognize the number."

"But what if it's somethin' important?" Butters prompted, earning yet another shrug from Kenny.

"I doubt it. If someone's really trying to get ahold of me, they'll leave a message. 'Sides," Kenny nodded ahead, "we're almost there."

Butters turned his attention back to the window, and sure enough, they had come to what appeared to be a fairly trendy part of town. The snow was falling a little more steadily now, drastically slowing traffic and suspending the intersection in a shifting haze of white. Butters still had no idea where they were going.

"So!" Kenny chirped, drumming his fingers on the steering-wheel, "When you say you aren't sure what to say to me —"

Butters whipped around so fast he nearly hurt himself. "Oh hamburgers, not _this_ again."

"— is it because you're shy?" Kenny continued, refusing to be deterred. He shot Butters a quick, friendly smile, all charm and easygoing confidence. "You seem shy…"

Butters sighed. "I'm not, ugh, well I _am_ , but —" He fumbled for words, then crossed his arms, pouting stubbornly. "Look, we don't got nothin' to talk about, alright?!"

"Eh? Sure we do," Kenny replied, his smile broadening into a grin. "We can talk about where you're from..."

"I ain't talkin' about that."

"...or where you got that gnarly-looking scar on your left eye —"

"N- _nuh-uh_ , that's a real long story."

"...or maybe our favorite…"

" _No!_ Okay, jus' —" Butters gestured in frustration, "— can you please jus' drive?"

"Okay, _okay_ ," Kenny replied, his voice obviously contrite. "Sorry, dude. Sorry I asked."

Butters settled back in his seat, sighing deeply, and a thick silence quickly settled over them both, uncomfortable as a sopping-wet blanket thrown across his shoulders. A minute passed, then two, and Butters bit his lip, suddenly feeling awful. Kenny hadn't done anything to him, not really, had even saved his life, so why was he being so mean to him? _Because I've been hurt so many times already, because it's easier to just push people away._

True. But..he'd run away because he wanted a second chance at life, a life on his _own_ terms. He didn't want to live this way, hating everything and trusting nobody.

Butters dared to sneak a peek at Kenny. He was driving with his shoulders hunched nearly to his ears, eyes locked on the road, and — _oh geez_ — he was actually _pouting_ a little, disappointment written all over his face; it was ridiculous, but oddly sweet at the same time. Butters relaxed, smiling despite himself.

"Hey," he said softly, knocking his knuckles together. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude or nothin'. But you gotta understand…" Butters paused, licked his lips, continued, "...it's been a real long time since someone took an interest in me. It's been a real long time since I had an actual conversation."

Well, that last one was debatable. He'd had plenty with himself, especially after Dr. Mephesto began sticking him in that cold, dark room with _Him_. There had been times when Butters thought he was losing his mind.

"It's not that I don't want to talk. I jus'...don't really know how to bring anythin' up that ain't painful. An' it's hard for me to, um, y'know," he swallowed, "after all the stuff that's happened, openin' up jus' doesn't feel worth it."

"I...oh." Kenny said, sounding faintly awestruck. He paused for a moment, glanced at him, then smiled. His expression was warm, gentle.

"Butters, you don't have to apologize for that. _I'm_ sorry for prying."

"Aww, it's fine!" Butters beamed. "I'm s-sure you didn't mean nothin' by it."

"No," Kenny replied, chuckling. "But...I want you to know that you can talk to me whenever you feel like it, about _anything_." Kenny fluttered his eyes, like he was some kind of princess or something. "Not only am I _gorgeous,_ I'm a damn good listener."

"Heh," Butters blushed, glancing back down at his fidgeting hands. "Well...I jus' might take you up on that, mister."

"Good." Kenny winked, and a moment later they were pulling into a mostly-empty apartment parking block. "We're here," he announced grimly. "Be on your guard, man. This could get bad."

Butters frowned, looking around. There was...literally nothing special about this place, it was just another set of apartment buildings, a little smaller and fancier than Kevin's. Kenny cut the engine and climbed out, and Butters quickly followed suit, locking the passenger-side door behind him.

"The guy who's gonna help us track down Kyle lives here?" Butters asked breathlessly, jogging up next to Kenny as he strode purposefully up to the entryway.

"Girl," Kenny corrected, "and yeah. She's a goddamn super-sluth. And if she doesn't _kill_ me in the next ten minutes, we'll find this Broflovski dude in no time."

"W-wait, but —" Kenny held the lobby door open for him and Butters stepped through gratefully, out of the cold; the foyer was unmanned by, but there was a security, but there was panel labeled with buzzers and placards, presumably to the residents could invite guests up themselves.

"Why would she wanna kill you?" Butters inquired, watching Kenny glancing over the names until he found them right one and mashed the button in with a sigh.

"Because...well...ah, dude, it's kind've a long story." Kenny muttered.

"I bet," Butters replied, leaning in to read the name under the buzzer Kenny had pushed for himself.

_Wendy J. Testaburger._

A moment later, a cautious-sounding female voice floated out to them over a hidden intercom.

 _"_ _...Yes?"_

* * *

 

 _Gregory used to love action movies…_ Craig thought, breaking an egg into a waiting skillet with a wistful expression on his face. The thought was almost immediately followed by a sense of disgust, and his wistfulness disappeared just as quickly as it had come, replaced by a dark scowl and a vague but unmistakable twinge of guilt. It was, all in all, not how he'd wanted to start off this morning — but considering how things had been going for him lately, it seemed almost fitting.

Craig sighed, shoving two pieces of bread into his toaster with a great deal of unnecessary roughness. Seriously, _what the fuck?_ He hadn't thought about Gregory in years — had purposely refused to do so — and now here he was, recalling his ex-partner's taste in film with something that felt suspiciously like fondness.

He, for one, had always hated action movies. They were too big, too dumb, too loud — but mostly, they were just plain _unrealistic,_ and that was a slight Craig simply couldn't forgive. In real life, it didn't matter how well-trained someone was; they couldn't possibly hope to take on an entire squadron and live. In real life, people didn't just casually stroll away while a building exploded behind them; they _couldn't_ , in real life there was no taking on a corrupt government single-handedly or driving the wrong way against traffic without a single hitch.

Action movies, Craig reflected sourly, would be vastly improved if, every once in a while, he got to see the protagonist stopping off to take a quick dump before continuing the arduous task of saving the world. It was the little things that mattered, honestly.

Maybe he was just biased. Craig wanted _nothing_ to do with chases and explosions; the rest of the world could kiss his ass, quite frankly. For two years he'd lived a mostly innocuous existence as a glorified security guard, two years of getting paid far too much money to look intimidating in a suit. It was perfect, nice and boring, _exactly_ how he liked things, but ever since Butters had escaped his life had taken a stomach-lurching left turn into increasingly bizarre territory.

And now here he was, unapologetically extorting money from a mad scientist in exchange for his friends' lives —

 _But they're_ not _your friends_ , something whispered in his head, nasty as a false rumor, _Christophe sure as fuck isn't your friend and Gregory was just something to do, remember?_

Craig massaged his temples, briefly, trying to stave off the beginnings of a headache. Right. He was planning to kill them both. And use that _thing_ , that aborted experiment Number Seventy-Eight, to track down Butters. He had one hundred thousand dollars on the line and three days to get it done, and at some point he needed to figure out what to do with that blond maniac he'd left down in the laboratory basement with two aspirin and a cup of coffee. Tweek Tweak was it...hm. Craig couldn't imagine _he'd_ had a very pleasant night, either.

Craig closed his eyes. He was _so_ fucking tired. The sooner he sorted through this mess, the sooner he could find a fucking _desk job_ somewhere.

"Hey," a voice snapped from behind, light and girlish and with far too much sass, "I have to get to school soon, asshole. My _breakfast_ , chop-chop."

Craig's eyes shot open, a baleful expression on his face. He honestly couldn't decide if it was sweet or sad that a large part of his reason for doing this was standing right here: four feet eleven inches of mouthy brat.

"Shut up," he replied, not without some measure of affection, before popping the bread out of the toaster (slightly burnt) and placing the pieces on a plate, along with a generous helping of eggs. Ruby smiled mischievously, plopping down at their tiny kitchen table; Craig slid Ruby's plate into her waiting hands like a bartender sliding a drink across a countertop, and watched for a moment in bemused horror as Ruby began to dig in like she hadn't eaten all year, using her toast to scoop up her eggs.

"Why are you even awake," he asked in his customary uninflected monotone, turning away to fix a plate for himself. "...most of the time I have to drag you out of bed."

"Hey, I _resent_ the implication that I'm not responsible enough to get up on my own," Ruby replied around a mouthful of food. "I'll have _you_ know that I'm up because I caught a whiff of burning toast in the air. And I thought —"

"Chew with your mouth closed."

" — I thought, 'well gee, _Craig_ must be home'. After all, no one burns toasts quite as enthusiastically as you. Seriously, are you depressed or something? Wanna talk about it? Toast is literally the _easiest_ thing to make, and yet you fuck it up every single time. Disgusting. I ought to call the cops," to emphasize how supposedly disgusting it was, Ruby took a huge bite of toast and eggs, smacking her lips for good measure.

"...why do I even come home," Craig muttered, easing down in the chair across from Ruby with a plate of eggs and a cup of coffee. He hadn't meant for her to hear that, but Ruby heard it anyway, as she so often seemed to do.

"I honestly have no idea," she replied, her tone deceptively light even as her blue eyes were serious — and surprisingly mature, for her age. "You're never home, anyways. I'm starting to feel like how rich kids must feel, being raised by the damn babysitters."

"Ruby," he began, halted. She was right, of course; Craig couldn't deny that he was hardly ever home, but he was _working_ , damn it! So yes, _okay_ — maybe part of the reason why he stayed away so often was because he was still trying to get a handle on _this_ , this whole situation. He never thought he'd end up having to take care of a baby sister he barely knew, and yet here he was. It was undeniable proof that the universe hated him, or something.

Craig sighed, gazing moodily down at his plate. It wasn't Ruby's fault their parents were good for absolutely nothing, nor was it her fault the only person she had to fall back on was a brother who'd been racking up a police record since before she was born. They were definitely related, but the family resemblance only went so far; it was obvious there had been a break in the chain somewhere. At thirteen, Ruby was small for her age, fair and freckle-faced, with a head full of bright red hair. To say he had no idea what to do with her would have been an understatement of massive proportions.

"Jeez, it was just an observation," Ruby muttered, rolling her eyes. "You don't have to have an existential crisis about it."

"I'm not," Craig replied, taking a measured sip of coffee.

"Sure, whatever..." Ruby eyed him critically for a moment, then got up to pour herself a glass of orange juice from the fridge. "You must've gotten in late," she commented over her shoulder, her voice floating back to him with deceptive lightness.

"Pretty late," Craig agreed mildly. It had been well past midnight, in fact; by the time he finished tying up loose ends at the engineering ranch, he'd been much too tired to anything but drive home and crash — further proof that action movies were complete bullshit. At some point, _everybody_ crashed, no matter the circumstances.

"What happened to your face? Rough day at the office?"

 _...my face?_ Craig reached up to rub his jaw, remembering the dirty sucker-punch Tweek had surprised him with in the laboratory's elevator. Of course it had bruised, of-freakin'-course. Craig couldn't help the surge of irrational anger he felt at that, made even worse by the fact that Tweek was his responsibility now — and damned if he was any closer to figuring out what to do with him. Perhaps he ought to just hand the maniac over to the scientists to experiment on, and be done with it already.

"I was dealing with some hooligans," Craig replied, shrugging. "It's nothing to worry about."

"Hooligans, huh?" Ruby rolled her eyes again, taking her orange juice to the head like a shot of whiskey. "You sound like an eighty year-old man when you say that, seriously."

"I have some last-minute work to finish," Craig said slowly, ignoring the jibe, "so I'll probably be gone another three days."

" _Just_ three days?" Ruby replied flippantly, downing the rest of his eggs, "That's lame. Why not make it a whole week? I've always wanted to act out my favorite scenes from Home Alone."

"I'll be quitting my job soon," Craig continued, refusing to be deterred by Ruby's blatant disregard. "So I'll be around more often."

Ruby eyed him for a long moment, partly disbelieving and partly unconcerned, her blue eyes filled with mistrust; it wasn't too long ago that she'd been watching their mother shoot up in the kitchen, hell, Craig couldn't blame her. The Tuckers were a _wreck_ , and he and his strange baby half-sister had both come out of the shambles of Laura and Tom's disastrous union appropriately fucked up — but they were all each other _had_.

Doing the right thing was hard.

"Whatever," Ruby replied, scooting back from the table with another trade-mark roll of her eyes. "I'll believe it when I see it. Peace out, asshole. By the way, you're looking hella stressed. Might wanna go on a _date_ or something, see about getting laid."

And with that appropriately cutting _bon mot_ , Ruby was gone, slamming the door behind her.

Craig sat at the table for a long time after she was gone, thinking about Tweek, thinking about Gregory and Christophe and Butters, thinking about his own damn _future_ , until his coffee was cold and his head was starting to hurt. Then he stood up, carefully placed all the dishes in the sink, put on his coat, and quietly left the apartment.

* * *

 


	13. an author's note;

Hello everyone! Unfortunately, this isn't an update. For that I'm truly sorry. But I figured writing an author's note like would be the best way to reach as many people as I could. If you've been keeping up with the replies on this story at all, you'll know that I was planning to update this story over the summer. Good news is I'm still _very_ much committed to finishing this thing -- the next chapter is roughly 5K in fact, and growing little by little -- but the bad news is that it's nowhere near done, and I gravely under-estimated how much I would have to write to cover the next major twists in this story, as well as how busy my own life would get as I get closer to finishing my last semester of nursing school. To avoid disappointing anyone or making promises on update times I won't be able to keep due to my demanding school schedule, I can't say when the next chapter will be, but I AM writing whenever I can, as much as I can, and come hell or high water I _will_ see this story to a conclusion to the best of my ability.

If you're a new reader or old, thank you for being so patient and supportive -- really, I can't thank you guys enough for leaving so many kind comments and even drawing art (!!!) for this story over the years. Your support is literally what kept me from deleting this fic at least a dozen times. 

 

Thank you, thank you, thank you. I will keep writing, and hopefully see you all soon with a new chapter -- it's going to be a BIG one. 

 

\-- Del. ;')


End file.
